Poison

by Charlot King

  A short while later from either side of the River Cam two people walk onto an arched bridge. They meet on the steep brow, stop next to each other against the glinting bronze rail. You can just pick out that one of them is Edward. His face in the moonlight looks fraught against the willows. The other in complete silhouette, a crow black figure.

  “Hello. I thought we’d sorted it? I’m feeling dreadful. I need to lie down.”

  Edward was not expecting this chance encounter. No response is returned from the dark shape. A cloud covers the moon, and for a few short moments all is enveloped in utter darkness. Those moments linger like empty blackness which blocks out everything. A scuffle and then a splash echoes under the bridge, and another as hands clap on the water’s surface like swan’s wings. The cloud passes, and moonlight shines back onto the bridge. Only one person remains. That person hesitates for a moment, looks down at the figure now in the water, but makes no effort to help.

  Not far away, Elizabeth Green flicks through the same piano book and comes to ‘Blue Skies’. Taking a long determined breath she bows her head to the keys and starts to play. Sentimental paintings of Wicken Fen, the line of plane trees on Jesus Green add colour to the wall behind her. Her music flows out of the windows, carrying some distance up into the night and drifting across the inky-black river, not far away merging with a disturbingly violent splashing in the water from underneath the arch of the Bridge of Sighs. A person’s hands groping, flailing, a lolling head panic-stricken. Ducks disturbed from a hole in the wall plop down and obliviously pass the person now struggling for breath, gliding away in the opposite direction to find a quieter patch for the night. In the distance and now out of sight a person still standing on the arch of the bridge morbidly stares at the dark spectre, then convinced of the finality of their actions hurries away in slate silhouette, not looking back with any change of heart for the body fighting the water below. The waters flow round a bend in the river, carrying the sodden casualty further down towards Jesus Weir and Lock. Two lovers amble over Magdalene Bridge some way in the distance, and blissfully unaware kiss in the moonlight. Windows in an illegally moored narrow boat glow with orange light, as smoke plumes out from a cosy wood burner chimney. All doors shut up tight, making it impossible to hear the terror cries bumping across the ripples onto the bow and back again against college walls, eventually each single note evaporating into the night air. Struggling past high walled river banks, going under and resurfacing, someone is losing their battle for life, as Elizabeth’s playing is interrupted by the grandfather clock chiming, or was it a banging door from somewhere? Elizabeth’s fingers retreat back into the large cardigan sleeves as she glances at the hands on the brass face resolutely staring back midnight in concert with a strong dong, dong, dong. She gets up to leave the drawing room, anxiously unsure, as if she has remembered something, but then forgotten what it was. Bertie rushes out.

  The watery figure’s last chance lures them into false hope, as they are taken past a low bank edge, now nearing the Weir. Someone’s garden. With all will power of a drowning person they cling onto the grass on the very edge, too weak to do any more. Elizabeth steps out into her garden; illuminated from kitchen light she carries leftovers from her dinner for any interested wildlife. She taps the side and starts to chatter to her regular evening visitors yet to make an appearance.

  “Delicious. Potatoes and peas. Hedgiepogs! Come, come, come!”

  Her ample garden rambles down to meet the River Cam. A wide and sloping lawn squeezes against narrow borders on either side, full of lavender, rosemary, roses. Eighty feet away at the bottom, the drowning person has noticed her and calls up the lawn, gasping for breath, choking to death. Elizabeth, on hearing a noise and thinking it may be a hedgehog replies, “What’s the matter with you tonight? Got a cold? Well, don’t pass it to me, or Bertie. I’ve had enough colds to last me until winter thank you very much.”

  Buoyed by the hope of another human, the person pulls at the grass and lifts their arms to hold a lavender stump, vomiting, convulsing, taking last breaths. Elizabeth can hear, but not see properly through the silver birch trees.

  “Who’s there?” She walks towards the noise, now just making out in the moonlight that it is a man. Her footsteps tread the grass more quickly, and she throws herself into a run. The person is screaming with every ounce of life left.

  ‘Serve us’, or is it ‘Served us tips!’ Elizabeth can’t quite make it out. She sees the man struggling in the water. Bending down, she grabs his coat and pulls at the heavy material. Together they get him half out of the water. Choking, and finding it hard to breathe, he clutches Elizabeth’s hand. Doubled up in pain, like some wild animal caught in a trap, his body convulsing, his eyes wild and rolling. His arm badly cut, as she holds him tight.

  “Edward? Edward. What on earth. Come here, come on. We’ll get you out. Stretch.”

  “Serve us tips.” He gurgles. Elizabeth can’t quite understand him.

  Edward convulses his head lolling up close to her face, and stares intently at her, but then his mouth twists in utter horror as he takes in the breath of death. The pain has gone, and he is no more. She cannot hold him and slowly he falls back into the water. Elizabeth, lying flat out on her stomach on the damp grass, watches with desperation as he slips under the murky water and seems to catch on something, suspended like a merman, he moves with the ebb and flow of the slow moving current. His eyes staring back at her in shock, his arms higher than his head, as if reaching back up for her to help. A shiver runs along Elizabeth’s spine and she withdraws a little, but then spots a hat floating down the Cam and straight towards her, bobbing behind the ghoulish figure. It hits the edge of her garden bank and she leans in and picks it out. In the moonlight Elizabeth can just see the name, Edward Wiley, clearly written on the inside lining of the fedora. She shakes the hat, still dripping with water, and as she does a small plastic bag falls out having been tucked in the inside rim. The bag, smaller than the size of her hand has a tiny seal zip. It is empty but for a whiff of white powder. Elizabeth looks at Edward, still holding the hat, her breathing growing more shallow, the wet lawn soaking her clothes. She feels a strong sense of disquiet that this was meant to happen in front of her.

  3. Power

  The Sun rises and the sky changes from black to reds. The latest model executive car drives up a fairly deserted motorway in the fast lane, breaking all speed laws. Inside a man is listening to Radio 4, the familiar pips signal six o’clock. Headlines chirp ‘Today the Prime Minister will announce that he’s preparing for a cabinet reshuffle later this week after the recent election victory. Some unexpected names have been mentioned to replace a few of his most loyal hands. And we will be speaking with the Deputy Prime Minister before seven, about who he believes are the most desired colleagues to make their debuts off the back benches’. Inside the car, on a heated seat, a man dressed in a bespoke pinstripe suit turns off the radio and picks up an electric razor. He starts to shave one side of his face, then the curve of his chin. His briefcase on the passenger seat is open, with the word ‘Westminster’ on headed paper inside. Jonathan Smythe-Jones, Conservative MP for Ely, a barrister with ambition emblazoned on his cuff, and with a life full of appointments and schedules, finishes shaving his other cheek as his phone rings. He answers, picking up the hands free small earphones, squeezing them in a little too deep. His gravelly voice replies to the caller.

  “What?” Jonathan takes a sharp intake of breath. “Look, calm down. I’ve told you I’m coming.” He pauses to listen, picking at the white cord running from his phone to his ears, then interrupts impatiently. “Please don’t lecture me. I know how serious this is. If you hadn’t quite forgotten I’m waiting to hear from the PM. Yes, driving to meet you now, all right? I’m not about to let this, or anything else ruin my chances.” Another pause to listen, then he replies, “Are you not even there yet? What the bloody hell have you been doing? You’re going to ma
ke me crash at this rate. Well, don’t tell the police anything until we’ve spoken. Let me manage Rebecca. I’ll have to put a lid on this. Just get there, quick smart.” He listens again, then angrily replies, “Why do you think they need to know that? Look, I’ll be there in an hour. Hell on a stick, say nothing.” As he cuts the call veins protrude in Jonathan’s neck. He rubs at his collar and emits the deepest of sighs, then studies his reflection in the driver’s mirror. He raises his jet black eyebrows deliberately at the tips and pulls back the skin on his face, narrows his eyes and focuses back on the road. This isn’t going to be a good day, there is nothing about recent events which will allow it. There is something about hitting forty that sharpens focus towards pessimism. The last ditch run for success, with a head firmly looking behind for younger contenders, Jonathan is feeling remarkably queasy as he drives towards Cambridge, a journey he seems to be doing all the time at the moment. As he stares into the middle distance he spots a crow on the tarmac ahead, picking at road kill. The crow continues to hold his ground, despite the car drawing nearer. He is half tempted to run the thing over, but at the last moment violently swerves. Unblemished the crow nonchalantly hops away in the opposite direction, as Jonathan Smythe-Jones tries to regain control.

  4. The Amiable Man

  The Sun pushes through darkness as a police forensics team comb the area near the dead body, which has now been pulled up out of the dark water onto the grass at the end of Elizabeth’s garden. A police officer tapes off the garden at the water’s edge, stopping any intentional mooring or entry. Towards the house, past a large Victorian pale brick, wood framed greenhouse, Inspector Abley stands under a parasol with Elizabeth, accepting a cup of tea in fine bone china, plopping in a lump of sugar then stirring with a spoon far too tiny for his meaty hands. A tall, well-fed amiable man, Bob Abley is easy in his own golf-course preserved skin, the creases around his eyes hiding well any look of an overworked copper. Dressed in an off-the-peg suit, open to reveal a golf shirt, and wearing his favourite well-worn moccasins, his attire sets him apart from the uniformed and forensic officers. His light brown messy hair and kind chocolate colour eyes, that tilt upwards towards the brow of his nose, and two fawn caterpillar eyebrows walking down towards his ears, give him a compassionate edge, so often lacking among his hard-nosed colleagues. Some say he has been promoted as much for being liked as being able to crack a case.

  “Do your officers always arrive before you these days, Inspector?” Elizabeth booms, placing the tray on a garden table beneath the parasol, from which Bertie studies proceedings. Bertie sees his opportunity and dips a paw straight into the milk. Elizabeth ignores this and takes a sip of her own peppermint tea, but Inspector Abley raises his eyebrows and thinks twice about drinking his own milky tea, placing his cup back down on the tray and choosing to ignore Elizabeth’s barbed comment, familiar with them as he is.

  “I never thought I’d be standing with you this morning. That’s for sure. It is good to see you, Liz.”

  Elizabeth watches Inspector Abley give her a big grin, but chooses to maintain stern eye contact, as she wants him to spill what he knows about Edward.

  Abley continues, “You know when you’ve been in this game as long as I have, you’re never surprised by deaths in the river. Calm on the surface, but the weeds, oh my. They should be pulled up.”

  Elizabeth plays like a cat with a mouse. “Inspector, would you like to join our group to stop the ecological destruction by pennywort and other invasive species along this stretch? You’d be most welcome. Many hands make light work.”

  Inspector Abley takes a moment to process the entrapment.

  “What? Er, no. I’m just saying, I must see more deaths than most because of the green stuff and all the rest of it. Nothing more. I’m a busy man. Look, fetch yourself back indoors. I’ll let you know when we’re leaving.”

  Elizabeth knows Inspector Abley always solves a case more quickly when she lends a hand.

  “Our paths have not crossed in a year, and now here you are on my path.” The Inspector looks down at his feet, standing on the grass. Elizabeth can’t believe the simplicity of Abley’s thoughts.

  “I was speaking metaphorically. But my path over there was clean before your colleagues arrived.” Elizabeth points to her neatly swept path now with muddy boot marks up and down the cobbles. She narrows her eyes at the mess, then looks to the sky. “I think we both agree that we work so well together, Inspector. That I complement the talent you have for -” Elizabeth searches for any words to describe Abley’s talent, “people skills, with my sharp investigative mind. This doesn’t look like an accident to me. Ask me back and I’ll solve it for you. You always do better with me, you know it.” She knows she’s being too pushy, almost too mean, but she can’t help it.

  Inspector Abley’s eyes widen at Elizabeth’s dig at his abilities, choosing not to remind her that he is the full time Inspector, not her. She’s just someone he chooses to hire every now and then as a consultant when relevant, not on the police staff payroll. Other people at the station think she’s far too interfering and prickly and should stick to academic life; her full time job as a Senior Lecturer and Fellow at the University of Cambridge. He knows she is very good at this, and been doing it for years. A memory returns of all those times before, when she treated him like her assistant. But it makes him smile, as he didn’t mind really. He knows she is a good woman, and despite what other people say, he actually likes her. Then he looks to the grass, admiring the neat short cut of the blades, and takes a swing of an imaginary golf club before delivering the blow he knows will hurt.

  “A person needs time to recover from grieving. You’re not ready, not for all this.” Abley pauses and watches Elizabeth’s face turn to disappointment, so he continues to try to gently explain. “I can’t ask for your help, not yet. Not under the circumstances. And you know we’ll manage, not as well of course, but we’ve been managing without you, Liz. And anyway, it still might be an accident, you know.” Inspector Abley looks around at the commotion of the men in white forensic suits and a police photographer snapping away, not believing his own words. Elizabeth feels punched. It has been a year, surely an acceptable gap before she returns to help? Just for a bit, and on some cases. She knows he doesn’t mean to upset her. He’s one of the kindest men she knows, if a little simple. Both qualities she finds unusual for an Inspector, but surprisingly comforting. She wants to scream at him, but can’t find her voice, can’t get any words to come out right. Inspector Abley clumsily changes the subject.

  “Is that blood?”

  Abley looks at the cardigan Elizabeth is wearing. There are tiny patches and a scattering of specks of dark red blood down the side of the sleeve and by the pocket. For a moment, both wonder if it might be hers. Elizabeth gathers her composure.

  “I tried to pull him out of the water, but men are always much heavier than they look, aren’t they? It must be the beer they drink, or the steak they ravage.”

  “I am sure you tried your best. We have people for that. It’s all okay now.” The Inspector looks at the cardigan. “May we take this for evidence? It might be useful, along with the hat. Thank you for retrieving that from the river.”

  Elizabeth reluctantly takes off the cardigan and hands it to the Inspector, who holds the neck with a pen so as not to get his own DNA on the garment, while at the same time rummaging in his jacket for an evidence bag.

  “Careful. You’ll stretch it. It’s, it was, his favourite.”

  Inspector Abley looks confused, so Elizabeth finishes the sentence to help him out.

  “It was Gerald’s.”

  Abley feels wretched; he is a bloody detective. How could he be so stupid? He tries to rectify his gaffe, but doesn’t know what to say.

  “Of course.” Abley places the cardigan now gently in the bag. “You’ll get it back, once we’ve done the necessary.”

  Elizabeth stares at the
cardigan, then at a crow in the Beech tree, bouncing on a twig far too small to carry its weight.

  “Nothing comes back. Even you can’t bring him back, Bob. He’s gone.”

  For all its not bringing people back, death certainly has a habit of bringing back memories. Despite the brisk air of the morning and the fresh blood on her lawn, with difficulty Elizabeth lets go of any thoughts of Gerald for now, and switches her attention to Edward.

  “And now he’s gone too. What’s to become of this place? Perhaps I’m jinxed?”