Sweet Poison

by Douglas Clark

  Masters said: ‘Is there a phone in the bungalow?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Internal and external. And a radio and TV. This place is not short of anything.’ He grinned at Green. ‘You can even hire bathing trunks if you’ve left your own behind.’

  ‘I’ll view the scenery and anything else I find interesting from a deck-chair beside the pool,’ Green said. ‘But what about a drink now?’

  ‘That’s an idea. Shall we settle in first and then have one?’ Masters turned to Mundy. ‘As we’re well supplied with phones, sir, I don’t think we’ll need your van, or have any reason to keep one of your men away from his usual work.’

  *

  Bungalow 69 was all that Mundy had claimed for it. The bedroom windows were a little small, but in the sitting-room one of the wall panels had been removed and a french window inserted, with a step down to a tiny lawn, edged with rows of Livingstone daisies already closing up for the night, and enclosed by a dwarf paling painted white. Masters, having washed first, stood on the step and looked about him. The bungalows were grouped closely in threes or fours, but the groups had a lot of space between them. There was no air of regimentation, the colours were gay but not garish, and the gardener of Throscum House certainly did his stuff. The grass between the groups had been cut and rolled to the point where each area could really be called a lawn, and the rosebushes and flowering shrubs made the area a veritable garden village. There were few trees. Masters imagined the Forces must have felled most of them except those that seemed to border the estate.

  They walked the hundred yards to the main house. By this time, holidaymakers were returning in chattering groups, gaily dressed, sunburned and, for the most part, apparently happy. Some of the smaller children looked healthily tired. One or two young couples sauntered along, arms and bodies entwined, transistors blaring at the hip. Green said: ‘That’s what I can’t understand. Sloping along like that in broad daylight.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Hill said. ‘Where’s your sense of romance?’

  ‘I can understand it after dark—in the moonlight. But coasting along in full view like two pennorth of cold god-help-me! No. That’s not courting. You notice they never laugh or smile, don’t you? I like a lively girl, myself. Not one of these miserable bits with so little meat on their bones that if they stand sideways they’re counted absent.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Masters replied. ‘Attractiveness in a girl these days seems to rely solely on her ability to wiggle her abdomen to a beat. I reckon it’s a pity, because short skirts have certainly increased the potential of their physical attractiveness by at least fifty per cent.’

  Brant said: ‘You mean where they once had to rely on face alone . . .’

  ‘And hair and smile and things like that, they’ve now got busts and bottoms and thighs to parade. Good lusty stuff, if used properly—and judiciously.’

  Mundy was waiting in the bar. A small, young man with—judging from the way he moved—bad feet, a lock of dark hair that fell across his right eye, a soft, hummy sort of voice and a spotless white jacket, came to take their order. Green said: ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Garry, sir. Garry Welton.’

  ‘Well, Garry, five pints of ice-cold Worthington. Can do?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Only local beers or draught cider, if you’d like that.’

  ‘Scrumpy? What’re you trying to do, lad? Get me as drunk as a puggy nut?’

  ‘No, sir. Cider’s good—for them as can take it, like.’

  ‘Draught bitter, Garry. Five pints.’

  Masters said to Mundy: ‘Who’s the local doctor?’

  ‘Meeth. He’s youngish, but not bad. A south Devon man, you’ll understand. His wife’s a doctor, too. She does all the ante- and post-natal work. A sort of part-time assistant to her husband.’

  ‘Was Mrs Partridge his patient?’

  ‘Yes. He lives so close, you see, and he’s the camp doctor.’

  ‘He lives in the village?’

  ‘No. Almost next door here. You know where I’ve got the van—just behind the magnolias opposite the front door? Well, behind the van is a copse. And behind the copse is the church . . .’

  ‘I wondered where the church was, as it wasn’t in the village.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, there’s been a sort of manor house on this site for a few hundred years, you know. And the church is in the grounds as you might say. T’other side of it is the rectory, and just past that is the doctor’s house and surgery.’

  ‘And the vet’s place?’

  ‘Rob Wintle’s? In the village. Straight opposite the police house is an alleyway . . .’

  ‘I noticed it.’

  ‘About forty yards up there on the left. A big shed place behind the house.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The beer was welcome. Green smacked his lips. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all,’ and entered into a conversation with Hill and Brant about the characters of various beers.

  Masters said to Mundy, ‘Mrs Partridge lived on the first floor?’

  ‘Half of it. The other half is used by Compton, the manager. It’s a big house, you know.’

  ‘And the second floor?’

  ‘A number of the employees live up there. The dance professional, the games organizer, the two chefs and the head waiter.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  ‘No. There’s a flat over the house garage, and the chauffeur lives there with his wife.’

  ‘Chauffeur?’

  ‘Well, he drives the minibus that picks up at Barnstaple station, he mans the petrol pump—they sell to guests only—and he used to drive Mrs Partridge about after her husband died.’

  Masters questioned Mundy closely about the search he had carried out in Mrs Partridge’s flat. Mundy assured him that his men had found nothing to cause speculation or arouse suspicion. It was as though the owner had simply walked out and died, leaving not a clue behind her of the cause of death or the reason for it. Mundy had not thought it worth while to leave a guard on the flat, but he had locked and sealed the door. He gave Masters the key.

  Shortly after this, Mundy left. Masters stood on the low steps by the main door and watched the police Land Rover tow the van out of its hiding-place and on to the road that ran across the front of the house, and out of the main gates, only twenty or thirty yards away. As he turned back into the panelled hall, the receptionist in her little glass-panelled cubicle said: ‘Excuse me, sir. Will you and the other three gentlemen be attending the fancy-dress ball tonight?’

  She was very young, and slim. He could see her bra through the white nylon blouse; the proud, if slightly immature, breasts, firm and provocative in their half cups. He smiled down at her. ‘Fancy-dress? What would you say I could come as?’

  She smiled, a little tentatively, then said: ‘The giant.’

  ‘What? Fe, fi, fo, fum? That one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Done. If you’ll dress up as the boy, Jack, and come with me.’

  ‘It would be nice—but I’m not allowed to. I have to be here. But I wear a costume. A milkmaid’s.’

  ‘I see. Well, I think you’d better count us out. We didn’t bring any fancy-dress—Miss . . .’

  ‘York. Cathy York. We keep some for people who haven’t got any.’

  ‘Why, Cathy? How often are these shindigs?’

  ‘Fancy-dress? Every Thursday in the season. They’re quite fun. Lots of people wear masks. We provide those free, too. And prizes.’

  ‘And everybody comes?’

  ‘Oh yes. Outsiders too, if they want to—at two guines a single, three guineas a double. Of course, there’s ordinary dancing nearly every other night.’

  Masters smiled at her. ‘On second thoughts I think two of my friends might like to come. The third one and myself will be busy outside after dinner. But thank you for the invitation.’

  He liked the hall. It was cool and restful. Dark panels; two leaded-light windows with box seats below; an old stone fireplace, decorated wi
th gladioli and enclosed by a club kerb with polished leatherwork and studded with dome-head nails as big as pennies; just two sizeable hide chairs and a twisty-legged oak table boasting the patina of age. It all suited him. This was his taste. He wandered over to the foot of the staircase. A red cord looped across, two or three steps up, reinforced the notice that what lay above was private. As he stood looking up, trying to decipher the design of the stained-glass window at the bend of the stairs, a man behind him said: ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Masters turned. The speaker was, he judged, in his middle forties, not very tall, tubby, and going grey. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a cream tussore jacket, a soft jap-silk shirt and large-knotted Cambridge blue tie. The face was full, of a good colour, and shiny. Not a hair was out of place. He smelt faintly of French Fern—recognized quite easily by Masters because that was the soap he used himself, though he didn’t indulge in other cosmetics.

  Masters said: ‘I’m sorry. Am I in your way?’

  ‘No, sir. You are Detective Chief Inspector Masters, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘My name’s Compton. I’m the manager here.’

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Compton. We shall try not to be too much of a nuisance to you, if that’s what you want to talk about.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m not in the least worried about you being a nuisance. I just thought I ought to introduce myself.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. We shall have to have a talk together, of course. Quite when, I can’t say.’

  Compton said: ‘I’m here all the time. But if you could see your way clear to leaving it till tomorrow I’d be grateful. I’ve the weekly fancy-dress ball to arrange for tonight and I’ve the beginnings of a headache.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘But if you’d care for an aperitif now—in my office?’

  ‘Why not, Mr Compton? Very kind of you.’ Masters didn’t particularly want the drink, but he was by no means loath to have a squint at the office. He followed the manager across the hall into a passage that led to the dining-room. The office door was on the left. From his window Compton had a full view of the comings and goings on the road outside and the front steps of Throscum House. One wall was taken up with a talc-covered plan of the Motel lay-out. For the rest, the office was very much the same as all other offices—safe, typing table, desk, filing cabinets and all the etceteras.

  Compton said: ‘I always stick to Williams and Humbert sherries. I hope you don’t object?’

  ‘Not in the least. A good house.’

  ‘So I think. But you see, here at Throscum, we make a point of using and selling as many locally produced items as possible. Obviously, for our better wines and spirits, we have to go outside the county, but you’d be surprised how readily our guests fall in with our chauvinistic gimmick. Devon cream teas, Devon cream toffee, Devonshire ice cream, Devonshire cider . . . Devonshire everything. So my personal stock of sherry is carefully hidden.’

  ‘Does such insistence pay off?’

  ‘Remarkably well. The guests like it . . . on the principle of when in Rome, I suppose . . . and we benefit in our marketing. Mr Partridge, when he first started here, soon learned that he could drive a better bargain with suppliers if he promised them an exclusive outlet.’ He poured two glasses of medium dry. ‘Oh yes. Business is business.’ He handed Masters his glass. ‘Your good health, sir.’

  ‘And yours.’

  Compton took two aspirins with his sherry.

  As he sipped, Masters decided he liked this little man: pompous, pedantic, but professional, he seemed an ideal man to run a show like the Throscum Motel.

  Chapter Two

  Masters didn’t stay long with Compton. Excusing himself as soon as he’d finished the one glass of sherry, he returned to the bar. Green said: ‘You’ve got rid of Mundy, then? I knew you wouldn’t have an easy moment till he’d gone. But I’ll say this for you, you didn’t push him off quite as quick and hard as you usually do.’

  ‘You’re very observant. And quite right. There’s so much background material here I wanted to get most of it before we cut loose.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘You two have got about half an hour in which to rig yourselves out for a fancy-dress ball.’

  Hill said: ‘We have? Have a heart, Chief. What can we go as?’

  ‘Coppers,’ Green suggested.

  ‘There’s a nice little girl in reception. Cathy York. She’d love to fit you up.’

  Brant said: ‘What’re we waiting for? See you at dinner.’

  Masters turned to Green. ‘I take it you’re not too keen on dressing up as Ali Baba or Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘You’re darn right I’m not. And I can’t see what you want those two cavorting round, body-clutching, for.’

  ‘Because there’s a masked ball every Thursday night and outsiders can pay to come.’

  Green sat up. He lit a Kensitas slowly and flicked the match over towards a standard ash-tray in the corner. He said: ‘See what you mean. But if you’re now thinking as far back as Thursday . . . no, it doesn’t make sense. A poison with a delayed-action fuse five days long that leaves no trace just isn’t possible.’

  ‘It does sound ridiculous, but we’ve got to try everything. Scrabbling for a foothold’s hell at the best of times. In a case like this, with no apparent leads, it can be as tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog.’

  ‘So what do we do while the lads are morrising about?’

  ‘Go to see the doctor—if he’ll allow us. I’ll phone now.’

  *

  While they dined, Masters gave Hill and Brant their instructions. They were quite brief. ‘Try and find out if anybody—guest or outsider—did anything unusual last Thursday. Mrs Partridge, too. Did she put in an appearance? If so, when and for how long. I want everything it is possible to learn about the dance and the people who attended it.’

  ‘How certain—or hopeful—are you that there is anything to learn?’ Hill said.

  ‘We’re not,’ Green replied. ‘It’s just to keep you two boys out of mischief while the men get on with the job.’

  ‘We’re in the dark, then?’

  ‘Dark? This case is as black as Old Harry’s nutting bag. Not a glimmer, so far. By cripes this sparrow-grass is stringy. Why can’t they serve just the tips and keep the rest for soup?’ He picked up a fat stick and held it, dripping with butter, above his mouth. ‘What’s left after I do this always reminds me . . .’

  Masters interrupted. ‘No similes, please.’

  Green grunted and sucked. As he put the chewed remains on his plate edge, he said: ‘By the way, what are you two boyos going as? To this do, I mean?’

  Brant said: ‘Cowboys.’

  Green pushed the rest of the asparagus aside and wiped his fingers. ‘Well, don’t try to ride too many of ’em.’

  *

  Dr Meeth saw them in his surgery. He was a man of forty, square built and chunky, with a boxer’s nose and ears. His hair was already greying and receding in front in a half moon. His fingers, when he shook hands, felt hard and thick. Masters, who disliked shaking hands, consciously categorized him as a practical man. A doctor who would never be other than considerate of his patients, but who would put up with no temperament.

  ‘It’s good of you to see us at this time of night, doctor,’ Masters said.

  ‘Nonsense. When else can a G.P. get a moment for a natter?’ He offered them seats. Masters took the patients’ chair opposite the doctor. Green drew one up from beside the records cabinets, and sat at the end of the desk.

  ‘Mrs Partridge! She’s your patient, I believe?’

  ‘Was. She’s dead—without my help.’

  ‘From massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis.’

  Meeth nodded.

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘Very. She hadn’t been on the sick list. And for an apparently healthy woman of not much more than thirty to die suddenly of such a complaint is surprising. What I mean is, if it were not a surprisi
ng occurrence, our life-expectation would be considerably less than it is now.’

  ‘I see your point. Would you mind telling me what necrosis is, exactly?’

  ‘Necrosis is the death of a cell as a result of disease or injury.’

  ‘Not from a poison?’ inquired Green.

  Meeth turned to him. ‘Oh, certainly. Injury from a toxin just as much as injury from any other cause.’

  Masters said: ‘So massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis of the liver means . . .?’

  ‘I’d better explain fairly fully. You know that every part of the body, every bone, every organ is made up of cells?’

  Masters nodded.

  Meeth went on: ‘This includes the liver. A great mass of tiny cells. Well, one of the functions of the liver is to metabolize any drug that is taken. You know what metabolize means?’

  ‘Turn into a form which the living flesh can accept as part of the body or as being useful to it,’ Green replied. ‘We learned all about it when we were investigating the death of a diabetic girl.’

  ‘It’s a pretty broad definition, but it shows you’re on net. So what do we get? The drugs go to the liver for it to metabolize them. But if for any reason it can’t deal with them, there is the strong possibility that they will deal with it instead. Do you see what I mean?’

  Green said: ‘No. That last bit. Why shouldn’t the liver be able to deal with the drug?’

  ‘For one of two reasons. The first may be because whatever arrives in the liver is not capable of being metabolized no matter how big or small the amount of it ingested.’

  ‘You mean something that won’t dissolve—like sand?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘The second is that the substance is capable of being metabolized in certain specified, reasonable amounts—such as the stated doses on medicines—but not if it comes in such great amounts that the liver is overwhelmed. In either case, the substance defeats the ability of the liver to cope and necrosis results. Cells lose their shape and become loaded with fat, just like a honeycomb gets loaded with honey. The cells can’t function in this state, and if there are enough of them affected—in other words if the necrosis is massive and diffuse—the liver packs up. And when that happens the unfortunate owner dies, ack dum.’