Sweet Poison

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Never mind. Perhaps we won’t need it.’

  Green said: ‘Not with Thoresby supplying her with candied chestnuts. What about a drink?’

  ‘You three go ahead. I want a word with Compton.’

  Compton was nowhere to be seen. His office was open but empty. Masters went back to reception to ask Cathy York if she knew where he was.

  ‘He’s gone out.’

  Masters thought this was odd as they had agreed to meet. Then he remembered it was Friday. Night off for the staff, according to Syme. He said: ‘I suppose he always goes out on Fridays?’

  ‘Not usually. He has Sunday and Wednesday nights.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Masters.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were asking about Mr Sprott this morning.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She opened her bag. ‘He gave me this as a tip.’ She showed him a five-dollar note.

  ‘Very nice, too. Why haven’t you changed it at the bank?’

  She grinned. ‘He’s coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. You think there might be another to go with that one. One trip to the bank will do for both.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s so generous. He gave nearly everybody something.’

  ‘Even Mrs Partridge apparently.’

  ‘Yes. And Mr Compton.’

  Masters said: ‘Let’s hope he’s got what I want.’

  Chapter Six

  After breakfast on Saturday morning Masters knocked on the door of Compton’s office and entered. His secretary was alone.

  ‘Where is Mr Compton?’

  ‘I really don’t know, sir. He’s been in. Now he’s gone away again. He hasn’t looked at the mail yet, so he should be back shortly.’

  ‘What does he normally do on Saturday mornings? Tour the camp to see if everything is ready for the new influx?’

  ‘Oh, no. He hasn’t time for that on Saturday morning. He’s usually in here at eight and he stays here till lunchtime. There’s so much to do on Saturday. People ringing him up from all over the camp to check on details. Last week’s accounts to do. Unused cash vouchers to redeem. New ones to sell.’

  The internal telephone rang. Val answered it. ‘No. He isn’t here. . . . I don’t know where he is. . . . He didn’t say . . . four hundred and seventy-three not four sixty-eight? Right, I’ll tell him.’ She put the phone down and turned to Masters. ‘I do wish he’d come. I can’t think what can have happened to him.’

  ‘Haven’t you a loud-speaker system to contact him?’

  ‘Oh dear, no. Mr Compton wouldn’t have one of those at Throscum. That would make us too much like other holiday camps.’

  ‘His flat?’

  ‘I’ve tried there. No reply.’

  ‘His wife’s out, too?’

  ‘Mr Compton’s not married.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. I’ll call back later.’

  Masters returned to the hall and found Green and the sergeants waiting for him. He said: ‘There’s a flap on because everybody wants Compton and he’s not in his office.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘See if you can see him outside, would you? I want a word with him myself.’

  They stood on the doorstep. Green lit a Kensitas and Masters filled his first pipe of the day. The sun was already high and hot. The activity around the house was ant-like. A gardener with a zinc barrowful of blooms trudged along the path. Cars followed each other out to the gate, luggage piled high on top, covered in weatherproof polythene. A milk float rounded the end of the concrete-block kitchen. Visitors staying another week strolled about or lined the road in small groups to wave goodbye to friends made in the camp. A camp cleaner with bass broom and two dustbins slung on a hand-trolley made slow progress sweeping along the road, stopping every few yards to shovel up his gleanings.

  Green said: ‘Busy place.’

  ‘How would you like an excuse to call on your lady doctor again?’ Masters asked.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’d like you and Brant to make a list of all the chemicals in the fruit sprays and fertilizers. The names should be on the containers. You could even take the car into Barnstaple and visit a gardening shop to see if there are more substances than you find in the Throscum potting-sheds. Then, when you’ve got a complete list, go over to the doctors’ house and ask what the effect of each one would be on the human body. If they can’t tell you straight out, ask them to look it up in a textbook. What’s the one they normally use?’

  ‘Martindale.’

  ‘That’s it. Would you see to that?’

  ‘We’re trying to nail him now, are we?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Thoresby.’

  ‘Certainly I want to know what killed her. If we can’t find the means, we’ve got no case at all.’

  Green said: ‘That’s what I feel. Thoresby’s the type, but I can’t see us pinning it on him just yet.’

  ‘It’s going to be as tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog laying it at anybody’s door. Look at the people who disliked her. The Meeths, the Thoresbys, the Honinghams—even old Compton hasn’t a good word for her.’

  ‘Not forgetting Syme.’

  ‘He simply adored her—or so he says.’

  ‘He could be reversing it. He was around at the time.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Green dropped his cigarette stub and trod on it. ‘D’you know what young Garry, the waiter, calls our Ernie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jessie Bell.’

  ‘Does he? That’s odd.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t have expected a Devonshire man to use that expression.’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t it original?’

  ‘Heavens no.’

  ‘I’ve never heard it before.’

  ‘I have. In Scotland—particularly in Edinburgh. I believe it’s a corruption of Jezebel—an example of folk etymology just like you calling asparagus sparrow grass.’

  ‘Jezebel’s a woman. A trollop.’

  ‘Not quite, or rather, not necessarily. In the early days of cosmetics it was used to refer to a woman who painted her face—and hence a bold hussy. But it gradually began to be used for what we would call Nancy boys, probably because some of them did use creams and powders. I’m no Professor Higgins, so I’m probably a bit off net. But Jessie Bell is common in other parts of Britain.’

  Green was about to reply when Compton’s secretary came to the door. ‘There’s a call for you Chief Inspector, from Superintendent Mundy.’

  Masters went to the phone.

  ‘That chap at the funeral,’ Mundy said. ‘He’s a doctor. I thought I knew all the quacks round here. But he’s newish. Consultant physician at St Mary’s Hospital.’

  ‘That explains his presence.’

  ‘How does it?’

  ‘He was probably the chap who dealt with her when she was rushed into hospital. Came to the funeral out of courtesy. Lots of doctors attend their patients’ funerals—particularly in rural districts like this.’

  ‘Unfortunately Mrs Partridge wasn’t taken to St Mary’s. She went to the District General.’

  ‘Perhaps this consultant attends both hospitals.’

  ‘No. Just St Mary’s. His name is Thurso. Initials M.J., and he lives in a house called Yardley, just over two miles out on the Taunton Road.’

  ‘Thanks for the help.’

  ‘I hope it’s of some use. Let me know if it is.’

  They discussed progress for another minute or so, then Masters rejoined Green to give him the news.

  Green said: ‘Now what?’

  ‘God knows. This chap is so new to the area Mundy doesn’t know him; he’s a specialist at a hospital to which Mrs P. wasn’t admitted; and he comes several miles to attend her funeral. What’s the answer?’

  ‘D’you reckon she still had clients?’

  ‘Personally I don’t think that would be it. A senior doctor might go off the rails a bit—though I’m do
ubtful whether Fay Partridge would appeal to most—but I hardly think one who did would endanger his reputation by voluntarily barging into a murder investigation. Why not see what the Meeths can suggest?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? You can warn them you’ll be calling later about the chemicals.’

  Green waited for a car to pass and then jauntily crossed the road and disappeared down the ride in the magnolias.

  A moment or two later, Hill came into view, covering the road from the bungalows at a brisk pace.

  ‘Found him?’

  ‘And how!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We saw him through the window of a kitchen in the big mess block.’

  ‘What the devil was he doing there?’

  ‘You might well ask. We looked in quietly. He was standing there with his arm round Lorna Thoresby.’

  ‘Just talking?’

  ‘She looked to me as though she’d been crying.’

  ‘That figures.’

  ‘What? When she’s just inherited half this dump?’

  ‘She’s also married to Thoresby.’

  ‘And you think Compton was commiserating with her?’

  ‘Maybe. She’s known him a long time and he was supposed to be like an uncle to her.’

  ‘If that’s what uncles can do to attractive bits of capurtle, roll on the time when I can be avuncular.’

  ‘Where’s Brant?’

  ‘Keeping an eye open. I came on because I thought you’d like to know we’d run him to earth—and the circumstances.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, Compton appeared alone, with Brant a discreet distance behind him. The manager looked flustered, as though hurrying in the mounting heat of the day was too much for him.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Compton. I’d like to talk to you.’

  The hands fluttered, pushing the tie down inside the cream jacket. ‘Not now, Chief Inspector. I’m very busy and I’ve got a headache coming on.’

  ‘Not too busy or too ill to leave your office on a Saturday morning and go careering off for an hour or so.’

  Compton straightened himself up. ‘I had a little private business to attend to.’

  ‘And now it’s time for public business, sir. I’ve been trying to get hold of you . . .’

  Compton looked affronted. ‘Get hold of me?’

  ‘For a chat, Mr Compton, for a chat. Ever since I arrived. You’ve always been either too busy or you’ve been out.’

  Compton was about to protest, but it was obvious that he changed his mind. Instead he said: ‘Oh, very well. How long will it take?’

  ‘Not too long, I hope. Where’s the best place for a private talk? Your office?’

  ‘Oh, no. Valerie has too much work to do for me to turn her out.’

  ‘Very well. The bar. It’s not open yet. We can sit at a table in there.’

  ‘If you insist. I’ll get the key.’

  ‘Right. And please don’t stay to answer your secretary’s questions. I’ve got work to do, too.’

  *

  Hill sat at a nearby table. Compton and Masters faced each other. Masters said: ‘When I first arrived, Mr Compton, you came and introduced yourself and generally gave me the impression that you were prepared to be most co-operative. Since then I’ve had a lot of trouble trying to talk to you. For instance, you went out last night when we had tacitly arranged to meet.’

  ‘There was no arrangement.’

  ‘No firm one. But Friday is not your usual night off.’

  ‘I am the manager here. My arrangements are as flexible as I care to make them as long as they don’t impair the efficient running of the establishment.’

  ‘Quite. Now, to do my job properly, I must have a fair word-picture of the victim. Without it, I’m working in the dark. I build up that picture, Mr Compton, by asking questions of lots of people and then fitting the jigsaw together. I need your contribution. I’ve tried to get it before now, but you’ve not been available.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Your view of Mrs Partridge. Dr Meeth didn’t like her. Your dance professional says she was a lovely person . . .’

  ‘Oh, him!’

  ‘You don’t approve of Mr Syme?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Until two years ago I had a husband and wife team here. First-class ballroom champions. They knew their job and were a great asset to Throscum.’

  ‘Mrs Partridge changed all that?’

  ‘Refused to renew their contract. Said a duo wasn’t necessary. One person would be enough. More economical. And she brought Syme here.’

  ‘She was wrong?’

  ‘Of course she was wrong. There are as many men who require coaching or urging on to the floor by a competent dance hostess as there are girls who require the male dancer to make the evenings a success. Of course there was only one salary to pay, but I think Mrs Partridge fancied herself in the role of the female. She played at it, at any rate. But she did none of the necessary preliminary work and organization. I think, too, she liked having Syme dancing attendance on her, which a married male dancer wouldn’t do. And which a decent woman wouldn’t expect any man to do, either.’

  ‘You had a poor opinion of Mrs Partridge?’

  Compton spread his hands. ‘I have managed Throscum for fifteen years. Successfully. Our increased business and profits each year prove that. But for the last two I’ve been hamstrung, Chief Inspector. My decisions countermanded, my ideas sneered at, my suggestions ignored, by a woman who, had she not been married to my employer, I would have forbidden to enter the front gates—in any capacity.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I have been frustrated, Chief Inspector. Frustrated.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave? Surely a man of your ability and experience could have got a good job elsewhere?’

  Compton opened his eyes in surprise. ‘Leave Throscum? The place I have helped to build up into what I firmly believe is the prototype of all that is best in its particular field of catering for holidaymakers? Leave on account of a . . . of . . . that woman?’

  ‘I see your point. Let’s discuss happier times. I believe, that in complete contrast, you had a high opinion of the first Mrs Partridge and her daughters?’

  Compton said simply: ‘They treated me like one of the family.’

  ‘Mr Partridge, too?’

  ‘I thought he didn’t deserve the wife and family he had.’

  ‘Was that your opinion of him in the old days, or has it been coloured since, due to his choice of a new wife and what happened subsequently?’

  ‘My opinion of him was formed years ago. What happened since Mrs Molly passed on only confirmed my opinion.’

  ‘I see. I suppose you were pleased to see the girls happily married and away from Throscum before the trouble started?’

  Compton’s face clouded. He murmured: ‘They should never have left.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Compton seemed to pull himself together. ‘What I meant was had Lorna been here—or Becky—their father might not have introduced his paramour to Throscum.’

  ‘Perhaps not. It would have saved a lot of trouble. But you can hardly blame Lorna, a lovely girl . . .’

  ‘Very lovely.’

  ‘Attracting and being attracted by a fine young man like Thoresby.’

  ‘Fine? Did you say fine? Your opinion of Mr Thoresby must differ from mine, Chief Inspector. I once had the pleasure of showing him the door and I should like the opportunity to do it again, for good.’

  ‘Really? Well, now. Mrs Fay Partridge. What was her attitude towards gratuities, or gifts that were sent to the camp?’

  ‘She tried to insist that gratuities should be pooled, and wages adjusted on a sliding scale to take some account of them.’

  ‘You opposed her?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘So you didn’t mind little Cathy keeping the five-dollar bill Mr Sprott gave her?’
/>   ‘Mr Sprott?’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Compton. The American who made you a gift, too. What did he give you?’

  ‘I don’t accept gratuities, Chief Inspector. As manager . . .’

  ‘I didn’t suggest you did. What gift did he give you? He gave Mrs Partridge some perfume strips.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t remember—from a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Chief Inspector, you have no right to pry into my private affairs.’

  ‘All right, Mr Compton. I know a lot of people think all public servants make secret reports to the tax man. I won’t tell him I think you got a sentimental fifty dollars out of Mr Sprott.’

  ‘Fifty . . .’

  ‘If he gave Cathy five . . . oh, perhaps it was only ten after all. Never mind. He’s coming again. He might be equally generous.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Now, Mr Compton, the gifts or samples that arrived from commercial firms. What happened to those? Did Mrs Partridge latch on to those, too?’

  Compton grinned. ‘I let her see some of them—those I thought she ought to have. The rest she never laid eyes on.’

  ‘What about a box of marrons glacés, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, those? She was welcome to them. Nobody else wanted them, but they were just the sort of thing she indulged in.’

  ‘Right. Back to Syme. Am I right in supposing that since he came here the administrative arrangements for all the dances have fallen on your shoulders because he is incapable of carrying out his full duties?’

  ‘Quite correct. The man is an incompetent nincompoop. He . . .’

  What else he was about to say was cut off by the sound of the door behind the bar opening. Garry Welton came in. He said: ‘Sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen, but it’s eleven o’clock. Time to open up.’

  Masters said to Compton: ‘Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps you will try not to be quite so elusive should I want to speak to you again.’

  ‘I assure you, Chief Inspector . . .’

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up, Mr Compton.’

  *

  Hill said: ‘Bother all there, Chief.’

  ‘You never can tell. At least we know the happy state of relationships that existed here.’ They crossed the hall. Cathy York said: ‘Mr Green said would you please go to your bungalow.’