SWEET POISON
Douglas Clark
© Douglas Clark 1970
Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1970 by CASSELL & COMPANY LTD.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For Richard
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
The first Thursday in July. A growing rain falling. Under his mackintosh, Detective Sergeant Brant was sweating. He’d brought the big Vauxhall as close to the rear main door of the Yard as he could. He was doing the packing. Detective Sergeant Hill had done the inside humping—piling bags and suitcases just inside the door. As he returned for the last time from the car, to make sure everything was on board, Brant said: ‘And I watered my garden last night!’
Hill was now listening to a transistor held close to his ear. He said, without rancour, ‘So you’re the bastard who bespoke it, are you?’
Brant was about to reply. Hill held up his hand for silence. Brant opened his mac, shook the skirts, and made a spray of droplets around his feet; took out a handkerchief to mop his face; and finally produced a packet of Richmond and lit one. Hill held his hand out, wordlessly demanding a fag. Brant grunted and offered the packet. For a few moments Hill continued to listen, the cigarette unlit between his lips. Then he lowered the set. Brant said: ‘What’s up? Test Match?’
‘At half past nine in the morning? No. Weather report. Clearing from the west. We should run into good weather.’
‘Where?’
‘In Devon.’
Brant grimaced and went out to the car, returning with the road map. ‘Whereabouts in Devon?’
‘Don’t know exactly, but I heard his nibs say Devon and something about the north coast.’
Brant turned over the pages. ‘Staines. Then the A.30 till it forks into the 303 the other side of Basingstoke. Andover, Amesbury, Wincanton, Taunton, then the 361 up to the coast. That’s a couple of hundred. Share it half and half?’
Hill nodded. ‘I’ll take over after lunch.’ He stepped to the door and peered at the sky. Leaden. No break in the clouds. He lit the cigarette and continued to stare upwards. Brant said: ‘You’ll get a crick in the neck.’ He sidled past Hill, opened the car door, took off his mac, bundled it into a ball, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Detective Inspector Green joined Hill at the door. Hill said: ‘Any sign of Chiefy?’
Green grimaced. ‘Still gassing to the Chief Super. Can’t we have anything but bloody rain in this country?’
‘It’s fine in the west.’
‘It won’t be when we get there.’ Green lit a Kensitas, put his head down and made a heavy-footed dart round the back of the car to get the nearside back seat.
Detective Chief Inspector George Masters joined them ten minutes later. He was wearing a grey Windsor check suit, brown brogues and an unbuttoned, scarlet-lined, white showerproof that just reached his knees. He paused for a moment on the step. ‘All aboard?’
Hill grunted an affirmative and went round to the front passenger seat. Masters got in beside Green. Brant started up and half-turned to look at Masters.
‘Make for Barnstaple in Devon. We should be able to reach Wincanton in time for lunch.’
They were clear of the worst of London’s traffic before the rain began to let up. Brant switched off the wipers for a ten-second test and then switched them on again. But the droplets were now so fine as to be little more than a mist. The improvement in the weather seemed to loosen tongues. Green, who so far had sat as if cowering in his corner, straightened up to say: ‘What’ve we been let in for this time?’
‘Murder.’
Green didn’t like the reply. At the best of times he was little less than hostile to Masters. For Masters to try to be funny at his expense was putting the boot in. Green said: ‘Don’t be more of a mule-calf’s daddy than you have to be. Or do we have to put in a written application for information now?’
Masters laughed unexpectedly. He said: ‘You mean moon calf, don’t you?’
‘I meant what I said. A mule’s the offspring of a he-ass and a mare, isn’t it?’
Masters said nothing. Ahead, through the windscreen, he could see the first patch of blue: grey-white cloud below it, darker cloud above. He filled his pipe with Warlock Flake. As soon as he lit it, the heavy, close atmosphere inside the car was filled with floating strata of blue smoke. He puffed away reflectively. Thinking about Green. He and the Inspector were not each other’s greatest admirers. Rarely in open conflict these days. They just didn’t speak the same language. Green was left wing. If Masters had been an M.P., he’d have been a member of the Monday Club. Their views were different on every topic, fact or supposition. Masters thought that perhaps this helped in murder investigations—to see both sides of the coin. But he was uncomfortably aware it often led to ideological differences which spoiled the harmony of teamship in so small a group engaged upon sensitive work.
The sand and pine country of Hampshire. Green suddenly perked up. It was familiar to him—evocative, nostalgic. He said: ‘I did a lot of my training round here early in the war. Spent most of my time fighting bracken fires in the summer.’
The strengthening sun completed the process of bringing Green out of retreat. He turned to Masters. ‘Would it be too much to ask exactly where we’re going, and why?’
‘To a little village called Throstlecombe on the North Devon coast. On the bay between Barnstaple and Bideford.’
‘Isn’t that nice! A couple of hundred miles to see the sea! What is this Throstlecombe place? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Neither had I until this morning. But it appears there’s a holiday camp-cum-motel there.’
‘No! Not somebody bumped off among a great sweaty crowd of holidaymakers?’
‘I’m afraid so. Hundreds of ’em.’
Green sneered. ‘Typical. And because of that the locals have called us in before the body’s cold, I suppose.’
‘You may be right. The woman died on Tuesday evening. The local coroner was due to go on holiday so he held the inquest yesterday afternoon before he pushed off.’
‘Just like that? Brought in a verdict of murder against person or persons unknown and then scarpered? Persons unknown! Hundreds of ’em, all scattering to the ends of the earth by Saturday morning, for a bet.’
Masters tamped his pipe. ‘That’s one of the reasons we’ve been called in. But there are others, apparently.’
‘Such as?’
‘Unspecified, so far. So we’ll have to wait until we get there to hear all the snags. But here’s what I do know.
‘In Throstlecombe there’s a veterinary surgeon. On Tuesday morning a young widow called Fay Partridge . . .’
‘How young?’
‘Thirty-two or three.’
‘Very young to be a widow.’
‘Very young to die, too.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘I’m coming to that in a moment. Mrs Partridge took her two poodles from the holiday camp to the vet’s in the village on Tuesday morning because they were off-colour. Surgery opened at a quarter to nine, and she didn’t appear until just after the hour, so there were six or seven cases before hers. She sat down to wait, and after a bit she, too, began to feel ill.’
‘Mulligrubs?’
‘I don’t know whether it was bellyache, or not. But she looked so bad that the vet’s receptionist asked if she’d
like a glass of water. By the time she got back with it Mrs Partridge had collapsed. The vet rang for an ambulance. Mrs P. was carted off to hospital, leaving her dogs behind. The vet went on with his work, leaving the poodles till last. He thought he’d be saddled with looking after them until their owner was well again. To his dismay—and, I should think, great consternation—one of them died while he was examining it. The other lasted until teatime then it, too, kicked the bucket. He spent an hour or two wondering how he could break the news to Mrs Partridge, and had just plucked up enough courage to reach for the phone, when the hospital rang him to say Mrs P. had just died and would he supply as much information as he could about her collapse, because the doctors themselves weren’t at all happy about things.’
Green said: ‘Plain as the nose on your face. They were all poisoned.’
‘Quite. That’s what the local police thought. But neither the medicos nor the vet could find any traces of poison. All three died of massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis.’
‘Toxic? You said there was no trace of poison. What’s toxic mean if it doesn’t mean poison?’
‘Toxin means poison. Toxic is the adjective describing the results of the action of poison. But it doesn’t necessarily indicate what the poison was. In this case all the signs were there, but there was no clue to the identity of the actual substance.’
Green lit a Kensitas. ‘I don’t believe in unidentifiable poisons.’
‘Neither do I. And if there were any, our job would be impossible.’
Green grunted. Hill, from the front, said: ‘What’s necrosis?’
‘Lord knows. We’ll have to get medical advice on that one.’
Green said: ‘I think it’s something to do with the liver—like cirrhosis is.’
‘But they’re not the same?’
‘No. Cirrhosis—you get that from too much booze. Your liver shrinks or grows hob-nails, or something.’ Green suddenly leaned over Masters to point out of the window. ‘There you are, see. Stonehenge. You wouldn’t think that circle was ten thousand feet in circumference, would you?’
They all stared out. The cromlechs were casting only small shadows in the near-midday sun. Masters was amused. This was the sort of fact Green always knew. His memory was phenomenal: his greatest asset. Let him read a guide-book once and he’d have the facts for life.
*
They ran into Barnstaple soon after four o’clock, with Hill driving; and passed through on the way south towards Instow. There was no sign of a village on the road. A public house—Devon Boys—stood on a corner where a narrow lane came in from the left. Opposite, where the lane continued on the seaward side, was a small white finger-post almost overgrown with briar roses. Brant managed to decipher its message: Throstlecombe.
There was very little to Throstlecombe. Apparently not even a church. But what there was glowed like a gem in the late afternoon sun. Wattle and daub cottages bathed in red gold and throwing heavy shadows clustered round a triangular wedge of village green: a furry billiard table dappled with tree shade.
Even Green seemed lost in admiration as he got down from the car, stiff from his long sit. Uncharacteristically he didn’t complain. He drew Masters’s attention to the post office and police house, nestling next to each other under the same roof. The red of geraniums on the windowsill of the house matched that of the Edwardian post-box let into the wall next door. Masters walked over. His knock was answered by a young policeman, smart in trousers and shirt, with his sleeves turned up above his brown elbows in a roll neat enough to satisfy a sergeant-major.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Masters.’
The constable said: ‘Oh, lord,’ and turned his head to shout: ‘Nancy! Bring me my cap, will you? I’ve got the gentlemen from Scotland Yard here.’ He turned back to Masters. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you’d fetch up here. The Super, he’s set up his mobile van in the grounds of Throscum House. He’s waiting for you there.’
‘Throscum? Is that how you pronounce Throstlecombe?’
‘That’s it, sir.’
‘How far away is it?’
‘Nothing at all from here. My back garden runs up to the fence of the grounds. But to get to the gate you’ll have to go back on to the main road, turn right up the hill for a couple of hundred yards or so. You’ll see the wall. There’s iron gates, set back a bit with the big house just inside.’
‘Thank you. What’s the name of your Superintendent?’
‘Mundy, sir.’
‘And yours?’
‘Benham, sir.’
While they had been talking, Benham’s girl-wife had come up behind him, holding his cheese-cutter cap. Masters smiled at her. She was plump and pretty and dimpled easily when she smiled back. He said: ‘You stay and finish your tea, Benham. We’ll find our own way.’
Masters said, when he rejoined the others in the car: ‘Don’t show your ignorance and call this place Throstlecombe. Throscum is the locals’ way of pronouncing it.’
‘We might have guessed,’ Green said.
Throscum House, situated only about thirty yards inside the main gates, presented its end elevation to passers-by. A pleasant end, nevertheless, with a conservatory, and a french window leading out on to a grassy bank three feet high, dropping down to a sunken lawn with sundial. The asphalt drive left the main road at right angles and ran past the front of the house. It was red brick with stone copings and a pillared portico with just two shallow steps up to a double door. Masters judged it had been built at the turn of the century. Even at that time it would have been considered big. Now, on the end away from the road, there appeared to have been extensions: nasty additions of concrete blocks with roofs of ridged asbestos sheeting.
The brass plate at the door said the house was the registered office of the Throstlecombe Holiday Camp and Motel Company. A notice in gold-leaf on varnished wood told guests that the dining-room, TV room, lounge, bar, ballroom, writing and games rooms were all on the ground floor. Guests were requested to note that the first and second floors were private.
Masters was reading this information when Hill said: ‘Somebody coming this way, Chief.’
A man was emerging from a wide grass ride curling out from behind a screen of magnolia bushes opposite the front door. Masters said: ‘Superintendent Mundy?’
‘That’s me. And you’ll be Masters—complete with full first team.’
‘All present, sir.’
Mundy was very sunburnt. His face showed irregular lines of white skin—the edges of areas that had peeled. His nose was shiny and purplish through the same cause. His bare arms, above the elbows, looked painful. He grinned at Masters. ‘I overdid it on holiday in Spain. I thought coming from glorious Devon I’d be immune. But I wasn’t.’ Masters could see why. He was very fair: almost bleached white. His eyes were blue. The Nordic type, more likely to be at home in temperate climates. Mundy said: ‘Come over to the van. I’ve parked it just behind the magnolias to be out of the way of cars and so as not to depress the holidaymakers with the sight of too many bobbies. You’ll find it a useful H.Q.’
Mundy asked the driver of the towing Land Rover to fetch a tray of tea from the house, and then led the way into the van. Masters found it cramped quarters. He was too big for it. The whole of the front panel was fitted with radio and phone links. The centre was taken up by an operations table. Masters, having stooped to enter, had to shuffle sideways between the table and the bunk seat. Green, coming in behind him, said: ‘I’d feel like a tinned earwig working in here.’
Mundy said: ‘I know it’s not built for chaps the size of us lot. But it’s the mobile provided for use on these occasions and I thought you’d like an operations centre on the site.’
‘Site? Ah, yes. Mrs Partridge was on holiday here?’
Mundy said: ‘Not on holiday.’
‘Permanent guest?’
‘She owned the whole shebang.’
Green said: ‘Aye, aye. Motive—normal. Poisoned for what she had to leave,
eh?’
‘It looks like it,’ Mundy said. ‘Whenever you get money and property valued at—well, I think it’s over two hundred thousand—you immediately look at those who benefit, don’t you?’
Masters said: ‘She was a widow. So there’s no husband to consider. Kids?’
‘None of her own. Two stepdaughters.’
‘How old?’
‘As old as she was. She was their father’s second wife, and a lot younger than her husband.’
The police driver handed the tea-tray through the door. Mundy said: ‘Shall we get rid of this first, because it’s a longish story?’
*
The teapot empty. Masters smoking his pipe. The air, hot inside the van, filled with layers of smoke, drifting lazily upwards at first, to be suddenly whirled away in a spiral, sucked through the ceiling ventilator by an up-draught. Green adding Kensitas smoke.
Mundy said: ‘You know, we wouldn’t have suspected murder if those two poodles hadn’t died.’
‘You mean to say that the woman’s condition didn’t suggest it?’ Green said.
‘Not really. It was a suspicious circumstance, I suppose, looked at in the light of what we know now. But the post-mortem carried out on anybody who dies suddenly from unknown causes is to establish the cause of death. Not to find out what caused the cause, if you get my meaning. Mrs Partridge died from necrosis of the liver, and liver complaints are common enough to be one of the natural causes most of us die of. So, of itself, it didn’t cause much excitement. But not many of us die as suddenly as she did. Or as young. It was strange from that point of view. And it was only when we heard her two dogs had died at the same time, of the same complaint, that the doctors began to get really worried as to why necrosis should be developed by a young woman who, up to a few hours before, had seemingly been in normal good health. Like the doctors, and knowing what we knew about her circumstances, we began to think all sorts of things. And so did the coroner yesterday afternoon. He plumped for murder straight away.’
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