Sweet Poison

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Claud. And he drove a pretty hard bargain, I can tell you. Not that he ever ordered much. He’d got his main suppliers down here.’

  ‘I see. Now tell me, Mr Thoresby. Did you ever send samples out? I mean, how could potential customers know your standard of goods if they couldn’t try them before they bought from you?’

  ‘Yes I did. A packet of dessert figs or a tin of Danish pork—that sort of thing, if I’d bought a consignment which wasn’t absolutely a run-of-the-mill line like butter and eggs.’

  ‘You sent such samples to Throscum?’

  Thoresby looked disgusted. ‘I sent more value in samples here than the whole lot of orders they ever gave me humped together twice over.’

  ‘Thank you. When did you last send a sample?’

  ‘Dunno. A week or two ago perhaps. I’d had to take a dozen outers of marrons glacés—right out of season—to get hold of a load of Swiss stuff at the right price. Marrons aren’t everybody’s cup of tea, you know. Too high class. I thought there might be a chance of getting rid of a few here. It’s amazing what some people’ll buy when they’re on holiday which they wouldn’t look at at home.’

  ‘You sent a box here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you get your order?’

  ‘Did I hell.’

  ‘When did you get your last order from here?’

  ‘I haven’t had one since that blasted court case. Two years it’ll be now.’

  ‘Mrs Fay Partridge stopped trading with you?’

  ‘Yes, she did, damn her eyes.’

  ‘Yet you kept on sampling Throscum. Why?’

  ‘To get the trade back, of course.’

  ‘It seems to me, Mr Thoresby, that if Throscum never gave you very large orders at any time, and stopped trading entirely with you two years ago, it was a very uneconomic way of carrying on business to continue to send them samples.’

  Thoresby didn’t reply.

  Masters waited for a moment to give him a chance to speak. Then he said: ‘The only possible conclusions I can draw from our conversation so far, Mr Thoresby, are that your business is in such a poor way that you have to try to drum up orders by uneconomic means—in which case you are presumably very short of money, which as I have indicated earlier often provides a motive for murder . . .’

  Thoresby almost shouted: ‘No. Blast you! No.’

  Unperturbed, Masters went on: ‘Or—and if it is true you are not desperately short of money, this alternative could be the answer—you have been sending luxury samples of dessert fruits with an ulterior motive.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘That knowing Mrs Fay Partridge’s liking for dessert, you have deliberately sent items which you knew she would take for her own use. Over a period of time you have built up her confidence in these samples, and then when you judged the time was ripe, you doctored one which you knew she would eat avidly.’

  Thoresby was on his feet. His face livid. He tried to speak. For several seconds no words came. Then he gasped: ‘It’s a lie. You can’t accuse me.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you, Mr Thoresby. Please note carefully that I said those were the two conclusions I had come to as a result of this conversation and that one or the other could be the answer. Not that either of them was the answer.’

  ‘You’re a rotten twister. You’ve twisted every word I’ve said.’

  Masters grew severe. ‘Have I? Think it over, Mr Thoresby. You’re the one who schemed to get half of this estate. You’re the one who instigated the action contesting the will. You’re the one who lost business because of it. You’re the one who sent tempting titbits to the poisoned woman. You’re the one who stands to get a hundred thousand pounds as a result of her death. How much twisting have I done there? Tell me.’

  Thoresby didn’t answer.

  ‘You can go now, Mr Thoresby. But don’t leave the camp until I give you permission.’

  Thoresby stumbled out. Hill, waiting outside, accompanied him across to his bungalow to deliver him to Brant, who was stationed inside with the other three.

  Masters said to Green: ‘Thanks. You came in just at the right moment to help put the skids under him.’

  Green, bashfully pleased at this compliment, said: ‘You didn’t do too badly yourself. D’you reckon all four are in it together?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know whether any of them are.’

  ‘It sticks out a mile.’

  ‘I know. But we’ve no proof.’

  ‘Yet! By the way, what was he burbling about? Those things from Switzerland.’

  ‘Marrons glacés?’

  ‘That’s them.’

  ‘Chestnuts in sugar syrup. You know glacé fruits and candied peel?’

  ‘Like that?’

  ‘Same stable.’

  *

  Hill brought in Honingham.

  Honingham took a chair. ‘What’ve you been doing to old Bill?’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Thoresby. I’ve never seen him look like that before. Looks as if he’d been through a sausage machine. Like death warmed up.’

  ‘I’ve been asking him a few questions, Mr Honingham. The answers he gave led me to certain conclusions that he didn’t like.’

  ‘He never does like other people’s conclusions. He’s a regular old bumper. Big head, you know. How Lorna sticks him I can’t understand. Always laying down the law about things he knows nothing about. Even tries to tell me how to run my show.’

  Masters grinned. ‘Which is a darn sight better run and more profitable than his own, I daresay.’

  Honingham said: ‘To the best of my belief, yes. ’Course I don’t know, but he seems to me to be one of those chaps who’s always about to do something big an’ dramatic in the business world, but never quite seems to pull it off.’

  ‘But he makes a good living?’

  ‘If you mean does he go hungry, the answer is no. But if you mean does Lorna need a new carpet in the sitting-room the answer is yes.’

  ‘Because he doesn’t import carpets?’ Green asked.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  Masters said: ‘You told me you handle quite a lot of chemicals, Mr Honingham. A number of them toxic.’

  ‘That’s right. I make up my own pesticides—sprays and powders. And I’ve started on fertilizers. Branching out a bit, you know. We’re usually very busy spraying and dusting in spring and summer but a bit slack in winter, so I needed something to employ us the whole year.’

  ‘You have your own chemical plant?’

  ‘A small one.’

  ‘Do you sell your products?’

  ‘No. Not really. What I mean is, basically we supply our own needs. We contract to spray fruit and crops and take along our own products and equipment. We do use other people’s products if they’re specified—but I like to think that most of our customers are satisfied with my own stuff.’

  ‘Your own? Do you formulate them yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a biologist, you know, and I’ve got a chemist working for me. We buy in our chemicals—don’t manufacture them ourselves. We’re not big enough for that. But we do the research and the formulation.’

  ‘And now you are going into fertilizers?’

  ‘Same thing again. We buy nitrates, lime, basic slag and so on in bulk. At the moment I’m managing to get a goodish bit of business from the customers I usually spray for, but if I’m to expand with any chance of success I’ll have to start coping with retail outlets. That means getting in bagging and packing plant and so on. The blasted machinery’s so expensive these days.’

  ‘In other words you need capital?’

  ‘Some. Not a lot.’

  ‘But your wife’s money—from Throscum here—will be useful?’

  ‘Don’t honestly know. There won’t be all that much actual cash unless the place is sold, and it seems a pity to get rid of a going concern.’

  ‘Income from Throscum?’

  ‘Maybe. But it’
ll be divided two ways. Nice to have, of course, but unlikely to amount to quite the immediate sum I need. And borrowing’s no earthly these days. Overdrafts are napoo with this Government.’

  ‘I see. Now tell me, did you ever have a contract from Throscum for pesticides?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t have fulfilled one if I’d been offered it.’

  ‘So none of your products have ever been used here?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. The head gardener here—Harry Tooze—is a great friend of Becky’s. Always has been. They write occasionally and Becky always tells him about my latest spray and what it’ll do and so on. Now and again he’s asked for bits and pieces to try out here, and we’ve sent them to him. We’re never given an order: never get paid. They’re just private dealings.’

  ‘I see. When did you last send any?’

  ‘Let me see. It was our new range. They don’t have names, only numbers. It would be HON48, 49 and 51. In March that would be. Three one-gallon tins, sent by rail.’

  ‘And when did you last supply Mr Thoresby with anything?’

  ‘Oh, him? He’s always on the scrounge. He’s had buckshee packets and tins of everything, including the new fertilizers. He certainly had them for his garden this spring.’

  ‘Thank you. How did you meet your wife, Mr Honingham?’

  ‘I came down here in the long vac one year to do a field study and write a thesis. I worked in the hothouses at Maken’s—that’s just a couple of miles away. I lived on the spot in a caravan, and used to come over here for hops at night. I was naturally interested in the market garden here; and, as I told you, Becky was a great pal of Tooze’s. We met. Mutual interest, you know. Usual thing.’

  Masters looked across at Green, inviting questions. Green shrugged his shoulders. Masters said: ‘Thank you, Mr Honingham. I think that will be all for the moment. Please stay in the camp until I give you permission to go.’

  Honingham stood. ‘Is that it? I mean, did old Bill cave in under treatment like this?’

  Masters said cryptically: ‘Some people are co-operative. Some unco-operative. We take a dim view of the latter.’

  ‘I see. He probably didn’t like admitting he hated Fay’s guts. I don’t mind admitting it. When you do admit something like that it doesn’t sour your tripes like it does when you bottle it up. Well, cheer-ho!’

  When Hill had escorted him away, Green said: ‘Another who could do with a bit of quick brass.’

  Masters nodded.

  Green said: ‘It’s beginning to add up.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  *

  Lorna Thoresby was tall, slim and dark. Masters thought she looked worried. Wondered whether it was permanent, as the result of life with Thoresby, or whether it was temporary because her husband had managed to speak to her in the bungalow, despite Brant’s presence.

  Masters said: ‘Mrs Thoresby, what were your feelings when you heard the terms of your father’s will? Did you consider that some of his estate should have been left to you?’

  She frowned in thought for a moment, then she said, not very convincingly: ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘No, because I’ve always believed that a person’s property is their own to do as they like with.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Freedom is everything, isn’t it? Everybody should have freedom of action, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘Within a certain code, yes. But if you felt that way, why did you contest the will? Did Mr Honingham persuade you to do so?’

  ‘Ralph? Oh, no. Ralph always said it was a silly thing to do, but Becky didn’t agree with him. She had no doubts.’

  ‘So your younger sister persuaded you against your better judgement, and her husband’s and, presumably, your own husband’s?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then Mr Thoresby must have agreed with your sister.’

  ‘Bill? He was very much for it. He took the view that Dad’s wishes didn’t count. It was what Becky and I and Mum—especially Mum—had done towards establishing Throscum that mattered. And he said that’s what the Court would think. But they didn’t. They said they tried to interpret what Dad wanted.’

  ‘They always do, Mrs Thoresby. But now, tell me, what did you do at Throscum before you were married?’

  She smiled. Masters thought he could read in it a sadness at the loss of happy times, recalled by his question. She said: ‘I was the confectioner, I made all the home-made sweets.’

  ‘You made all the goodies sold here?’

  ‘Yes. I established the business. Mum helped me at first, but from the time I was sixteen I did it on my own, and it was run as a separate little department.’ There was a touch of pride in her voice. ‘I made a lot of traditional sweets, but I was always trying special lines and new ideas. It was easy to tell which took on and which didn’t.’

  ‘I see. Is the department as go-ahead now as it used to be in your day?’

  ‘I don’t think it is, quite. Before I left I had a little staff, and my chief assistant took over. She still makes all the standard items, but nothing that’s different.’

  ‘Where is the sweet factory?’

  ‘Factory? It’s one room and a kitchen in the stores block.’

  ‘The one that used to be the American officers’ mess?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was it there that you first saw your husband?’

  ‘No. I first saw him in the office when he called the first time.’

  ‘Then what? Did he date you?’

  ‘Not just then. He booked a holiday and stayed here.’

  Green said: ‘So that’s how he played it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Green tried to put matters right. ‘I expect when he came on holiday he tried to sell you something. Came to your kitchen.’

  ‘How did you guess? He’d got a consignment of almonds. He’d brought some with him and suggested I should make some sugared almonds, but they’re too difficult without a rotating vat for the different coloured coatings; and the shapes are difficult, too. But I remember he had some packets of dates as well, so one evening when the staff had gone I made some nut and date pieces. Terribly easy, really. All I did was open out each date and put an almond inside. Then I lined a tray with rice paper and pressed the stuffed dates down, covered them with another sheet of rice paper, and cut them into pieces about an inch and a half square.’

  Masters said: ‘Were they a success?’

  ‘A great success.’

  ‘So you were able to give Mr Thoresby an order for almonds and dates.’

  ‘Not a big one. Nobody could eat many sweets as rich as that at a time.’

  ‘Pity. After you were married did you still make sweets?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘Your husband didn’t like them?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Did you ever send any home here to Throscum?’

  ‘Only ideas—to Mr Compton.’

  ‘He took an interest?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was like a member of the family—an uncle I suppose you’d call him, to Becky and me. He came, you know, when we were still schoolgirls.’

  ‘Did you ever visit Throscum after your father died?’

  ‘Not after the funeral. There was the Court case coming up . . .’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you, Mrs Thoresby. I hope that things will sort themselves out for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I go now?’

  *

  Becky Honingham was very different from her sister. She looked more than the two years younger than Lorna. She was plumper, and she was fair. Her manner, too, was different: more extrovert.

  ‘The money was ours. We’d earned it. Dad did nothing. He got the place for nothing and he did nothing—except chase women in bars. Mum did it. She was wonderful. And she made Lorna and me work, too. Lorna slaved in that kitchen of hers, and I was a glorified land girl. I hoed, I planted, I picked—up at six ever
y morning in summer. You should have seen how we worked. And then to get nothing because Dad decided—well, he didn’t decide. Fay did. She threatened to shut up shop unless he married her. Robbed by a whore like that. What would you have done? You know I’ve always had a theory about Dad. He was pretty fit, and then he died of a heart attack in bed. I reckon she egged him on to over-exert himself—on purpose.’

  ‘So you disliked your stepmother?’

  ‘Disliked? I don’t think there’s a word to describe what I felt for her. Honestly, how my father could! I heaved at the mere thought of her.’

  ‘You seem to form very positive likes and dislikes. What d’you think of your brother-in-law?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘Can a worm be self-opinionated? If so, that’s him.’

  ‘Is your sister happy with him?’

  Becky Honingham became more serious. ‘Look, Inspector—or whatever your rank is—I’ve always thought the world of Lorna. Ever since we met to come down here, Bill Thoresby has been trying to get me to agree to sell Throscum. I know why. He wants the money. But I won’t sell. D’you know why? Ralph and I need capital, too. And I don’t want to move an inch from Ralph, and I want his business to thrive. So it would suit me to sell. But Lorna’s miserable. The only place for her to be happy is here. Running Throscum. And I’m damned if I’ll help Bill use her money—throw it away on his tinpot little business that can hardly keep them. If she likes to bring him down here with her, that’s her affair. If not, he can go to hell.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Honingham. That answered my question plainly enough. And I don’t think I’ve anything more to ask you at the moment.’

  ‘Good-oh! And if you hear cries in the night you’ll know it’s me strangling Bill Thoresby, so there’ll be no need to get up.’

  Green said: ‘I liked that last one. Funny thing to say, because I reckon she’s got the temperament to have knocked off her stepmother.’

  They were walking towards Throscum House at the time. Hill and Brant came up behind them.

  ‘About this fruit, Chief,’ Hill said. ‘There’s bags of every type of chemical known to man in the potting-sheds. And they’ve got a gas chamber for apples and pears, to say nothing of deep freezes for soft fruits. But nobody I’ve spoken to has ever heard of Mrs Partridge eating fruit. They reckon that if she had been so keen on it she’d have wanted the best picked out and sent up to her. And she never did that.’