by Liz Turner
Three hours later, she was woken by a gentle tap on her sleeve. She blinked, winced as the sun assaulted her eyes, and then stretched. She’d fallen asleep with the book still on her lap.
“Dr. Malone, Leroy is here to see you,” Debby said.
“Leroy?” Hallie wracked her brain but could not place a face to the name.
“My brother,” Debby said. “He’s a Sergeant at the local police department.”
“Ah, Sergeant Johnson!” Hallie exclaimed, sitting up straight. “Yes, yes. I’ll go out and meet him right away. In fact, ask him if he’d like to have breakfast with us.”
Much like Debby, Sergeant Johnson was short and round, albeit with paler skin and a shock of red hair instead of her wavy brown. He was wrestling with his nephew Oswald and had him in an unbreakable grip when Hallie and Debby came out into the main hall. Immediately loosening his hand, Sergeant Johnson stood straight, only to be elbowed by Oswald. Oswald ran away giggling while Johnson grimaced and attempted to get his breath back.
“Sorry about that,” He said. “The young rascal gets naughtier every day, Debby.”
“Takes after his father, I suppose,” Debby sighed. “Ollie was a proper devil, and Ossie will turn out to be one too in all likelihood.”
They sat down to a comfortable breakfast of fried eggs, brown toast, pork sausages and coffee. Hallie felt her head begin to clear as soon as she took a sip of the potent black liquid.
“Debby makes the best coffee this side of the coast,” Sergeant Johnson declared. Debby flushed and flapped her towel at him. Turning to Hallie, Sergeant Johnson said, “Dr. Malone, you weren’t supposed to join as medical examiner until next week, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Hallie said. “I’ve just arrived a few days ago. Some of my suitcases aren’t even here yet.”
“Well, I’m afraid we might have to ask you to begin a day earlier,” Sergeant Johnson sighed. “Henry Blackstone is insisting that something’s not right about his father’s death. I’m inclined to agree. John was a strong man with no history of illness. Besides, three others have suffered too.”
Hallie nodded. “I’m sorry to say that your suspicions are probably right. I’d like a chance to examine the body more closely, but for now—” she placed the textbook she’d been reading onto the table and flipped it open to a page. “Conium Maculatum,” Hallie said. “That’s what I suspect.”
“Never heard of it,” Sergeant Johnson said.
“Commonly known as hemlock,” Hallie replied. “The patient was showing all the symptoms based on what Henry has described—paralysis from the feet up, vomiting, convulsions…”
“Oh, I can’t bear to hear it!” Debby put her hands to her ears. There was a scrape as she pushed her chair back from the table, and she ran out of the room.
“She’s always been a sensitive type,” Sergeant said. “Better she not be in the room while we discuss this, I suppose.”
“Yes. I’m afraid that if my suspicions are right, we’ll find that John Blackstone didn’t die a natural death—he was murdered!”
Chapter 5
The Curious Contents
W arrenton Hospital was a small, squat building, with a large green garden bordered by elm trees and an imposing ironwork gate with the letters “WH” at the top. Hallie’s father, Dr. Jacob Malone, had been one of the founding members of the hospital, and perhaps this, in addition to Hallie’s own extensive experience, had prompted the current staff to make her a job offer.
Before the war, the hospital had been much larger, with fifteen nurses and four full-time doctors. Now, only two doctors and three nurses remained. Dr. Livingstone was a locally beloved generalist, while Dr. Scranton was a rigid but excellent surgeon. Hallie, upon meeting both, had found them honest and trustworthy; solid, intelligent men. They’d clearly liked her too, for which she was glad. In the past, she’d found herself working with men who thought that just because she was a woman she was somehow less capable or intelligent than they were.
Such men had never directly insulted her, but she’d found herself having to work twice as hard to prove to them that she was a person worth taking seriously. It had aggravated her, but she didn’t dwell on it. Dr. Livingstone and Dr. Scranton, on the other hand, seemed to respect her judgement immediately—whether because they’d known her father, or because they admired her years of experience in the army, she wasn’t sure—but she was glad just the same.
Dr. Scranton, a tall bald man with permanent stubble and deep-set brown eyes, assisted Hallie with the postmortem, and by the time the results were in, he was as confused as Hallie.
“I don’t understand it,” Dr. Scranton explained to Sergeant Johnson. “We examined the stomach contents carefully. The man had rather a lot of whisky last night, but there was no doubt that the stew was the culprit that lead to his death because there was hemlock in the stew.”
“So, it’s murder then,” Sergeant Johnson nodded, scribbling in his notebook.
“Not exactly,” Hallie frowned. She glanced at Scranton and nodded at him to continue.
“What do you mean not exactly?” Johnson asked.
“Well, the thing is…” Scranton sighed. “For one thing, three other people ate the stew that day, yet only John, who was larger than all of them, died. He would have needed a larger dose of poison to be affected.”
“Well… he’s dead though,” Johnson pointed out. “And the other three aren’t. Maybe he was just more sensitive.”
Scranton shook his head. “I don’t think so. Hallie has a theory though.”
“John must have separately received an extra dose of the poison,” Hallie said. “Together, the dosage was large enough to kill him.”
“But why?” Johnson looked thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand. If someone wanted to kill John, why go to all the trouble of finding not one, but two ways to poison him?”
“It gets even more complicated,” Scranton said. “On examining the contents of his stomach, we found out that the amount of hemlock present wasn’t a large enough dose to kill him.”
Johnson looked confused again. “You said that before. There wasn’t enough poison in the stew to kill him. It must have been in the whiskey, too.”
“You don’t understand,” Scranton said. “The poison was present in his blood but wasn’t present in his stomach. It couldn’t have been in the whiskey.”
Johnson’s mouth hung open. “Well, what was it, then?”
Scranton looked uncomfortable as he admitted, “At this juncture, there are possibilities we are looking into. But it might take some time to hit upon the truth.”
Sergeant Johnson groaned. “That’s just a smart way of saying, ‘We have no clue.’”
Hallie grinned and clapped a hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder. “Well, that’s what our trusty police force is for, isn’t it? To get a clue.”
Johnson nodded. “Well, at least it’s convenient. All my suspects are in the hospital. Sheila because she fainted and the other three because of their food poisoning.” He hesitated, then looked at Hallie. “Would you accompany me, Dr. Malone? I mean…”
“You think they’d feel more comfortable speaking to you if a friendly face was present?” Hallie asked. “Sure. I’ll come along.”
The first on the list was Gladys. She looked frail and sunken in the large white bed, with an IV line hooked up to her. But she smiled sunnily when she saw Hallie.
“I look like I played a few rounds of boxing with Lucifer himself, don’t I?” she asked. “I’m still strong, though. Get these infernal tubes out of me, and I’ll outrun both of you.”
“Mrs. Dean, the doctors said you should stay here until tomorrow,” Sergeant Johnson said nervously.
“Rubbish.” Gladys was sitting up. “They’ll give me warmed over swamp grease for dinner. It’ll make me sick all over again. I’d prefer to be back home, thank you very much.”
Helplessly, Johnson looked over at Hallie, who said, “Gladys, you’re a
sweetheart, but if you make any moves to get out, I’ll handcuff you to the bed until next week!”
Gladys opened her mouth to say something, caught the stern look in Hallie’s eyes, and sighed. “Fine. One more day.”
Hallie nodded and adjusted the flowers on her bedside table. “Lovely roses,” she commented.
“Thank you. Mayor Seymour Jackson himself visited and gave these to me.” Gladys smiled. “You’ll meet him soon, Hallie. Try not to get too bowled over. He’s charming, but nothing short of a snake!”
“Now, Mrs. Dean. Mr. Jackson’s a wonderful man and a good mayor,” Johnson said.
“Well at least he has one puppy who is loyal to him.” Gladys grinned at Johnson.
Johnson turned a shade of tomato and was about to retort when Hallie intervened.
“Gladys, Sergeant Johnson is here to ask you some questions. John Blackstone passed away last night, and it appears—”
“He was murdered,” Gladys said. “I’m ill, Hallie, but not deaf. The gossip still falls on my ears just fine.”
Hallie sighed. “So, your spies have been talking to you? What exactly did you hear?”
“That he was poisoned,” Gladys said. “It was probably the lamb stew, wasn’t it? The four of us were the only ones to eat it, and we all fell ill around the same time last night.”
Before Hallie could say anything, Sergeant Johnson hastily interrupted with, “I’m afraid we can neither confirm nor deny.”
Gladys sighed and leveled Sergeant Johnson with a deadly look. “Leroy, I’ve taught you for five years over at the high school. I still see you as the muddy little boy with tufty hair. Don’t act like a bureaucrat around me. Tell me the truth. Was he murdered? Was it the lamb stew?”
Sergeant Johnson sighed. “We think it might be. We aren’t fully sure of anything yet. That’s the truth, Mrs. Dean. Now would you mind if I returned to asking the questions instead of you?”
“Carry on.” Gladys plumped up her pillow and sat up higher.
“Last evening at Mr. Blackstone’s house, who else was present?”
Gladys ticked the names off her fingers. “There’s me, Sheila Brucke, Bert Bigelow, Ethel Hastings, Hallie, and John himself. Henry appeared for a little while and then disappeared. Mayor Jackson was supposed to be there last night, but he begged off.”
Johnson nodded. “Anyone else? Servants?”
“No servants,” Gladys said. “John was a rather unusual man; he believed that having no servants kept him fitter since he wasn’t being waited on hand and foot. He only hired a chef, Leon, and Debby came by twice a week to tidy up the house.”
“Leon is the man who made the stew, yes?” Johnson scribbled something in his notebook. “Was he there last night?”
“No,” Gladys said. “But Debby had gone over at about five pm to clean up the house before the guests arrived. She said that Leon was just leaving when she arrived.”
Johnson chewed his lip. “I didn’t know she went over yesterday.”
“For being her brother and a policeman, seems there’s a lot you don’t know,” Gladys teased. “Oh, she’s a sweet girl, your sister is—she was such an angel last night. I was quite panicked, if I’m honest, and she calmed me right down. I told her I was probably going to die, and she said, ‘Gladys, you’re going to outlive us all!’”
“Well, she’s quite right,” Hallie laughed. “You’re fit as a fiddle, Gladys. Nothing to worry about.”
“Getting back to my questions,” Johnson said. “What happened at the party? Can you describe the events of last night?”
“Well, it was a regular old dinner party.” Gladys shrugged. “We hung around in the parlor for a little while, drinking. Sheila and I had wine; Hallie and Blackstone had whisky; Bert had a martini, and Ethel Hastings had a gin and tonic. Around nine, we decided to have dinner. Sheila wanted to play the host, so she went into the kitchen to bring out the food. Edith and I went along with her to help.” Gladys paused. “It’s no secret that I’m not very fond of Sheila, so take what I say next with a grain of salt. I don’t think Sheila was very pleased that we wanted to help. But then again, she was in a sour mood whenever she talked to someone other than John, so perhaps she was just being nasty.”
Sergeant Johnson didn’t react to this but simply made a note in his book. “What next?”
“The stew lay on the stove. I heated it up while Edith made the salad and Sheila warmed the bread. Then Sheila poured it into a tureen, and Edith carried it out into the dining room. We followed with the rest of the food. As we were eating dinner, Henry interrupted us and wanted to speak to his father. However, at Sheila’s insistence, John told him to wait upstairs while he finished dinner. Sheila herself refused to eat the stew because of her ‘diet’. She didn’t mind eating the cherry pie afterwards though.” Gladys’s eyes narrowed. “If I were you, Sergeant Johnson, I’d look into her story closely. She’s a snake!”
“Mrs. Dean, I’m very fond of you, but you seem to believe that half the people in this town, including the mayor, are snakes,” Johnson said.
“So they are,” Gladys declared. “That’s why I’m glad Hallie decided to move back. We need more solid citizens like her. The war took all the good men away and left all the crooked ones back here.”
“Well, at least we still have you.” Johnson gave her a cheeky grin. “So that’s your takeaway, Gladys? Sheila’s the one who did it?”
Gladys shook her head. “I don’t want to accuse anybody of anything. I just gave you my observations.”
“The stew,” Hallie said. “You say it was on the stove—can you describe that to us?”
“It was lamb stew with fennel, carrots, and peas, rather delicious—”
“I meant, describe the positioning of the stove,” Hallie said hastily.
“The position?” Gladys frowned. “Ah, I see. The stove was near the window…and the window was open.”
“Open wide enough for someone to extend a hand through and pour something into the stew?”
Gladys hesitated. “I wouldn’t say it would be easy to do that, but it is certainly possible.”
“Do you know anybody in town who might have had a grudge against John Blackstone?” Hallie asked.
“It’s hard to say.” Gladys sighed. “There’s a man he fired last week who might have been rather angry at him, but nobody else I can think of.”
“Do you mean Eddy O’Hara?” Johnson asked.
Gladys nodded.
“Can’t have been him,” Johnson said. “He was arrested last night at eight for being drunk and disorderly. He spent the rest of the night cooling off at the station.”
“But if he wasn’t arrested until eight pm,” Gladys said. “he could have placed the poison in the stew anytime between five and eight. It’s possible he killed John and tried to fool you all into believing he had the perfect alibi!”
Chapter 6
A Prickly Truth
U nlike Gladys, who insisted she hadn’t wanted to accuse anybody, Bert was more blunt.
“Sheila did it,” he said, almost as soon as Sergeant Johnson began asking him questions. “There’s no doubt in my mind about it, Sergeant. You can arrest her right now, and if she’s got any morals at all, she’ll confess.”
Johnson rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand and looked over at Hallie, who was leaning on the doorframe. Bert smiled and nodded at Hallie. “I’m sure you agree, right Hallie?”
“I—” Hallie sighed and shrugged. “I’ve got no opinions. I didn’t know John, and I don’t know Sheila.”
“But don’t you agree that it was rather odd how she refused to eat the stew and then wolfed down the cherry pie? I remember distinctly her being quite irritated when Henry interrupted the dinner—because she wanted John to eat.” Bert’s smile grew even more sly. “I’ll eat my hat if she didn’t do it. Poisoning is a woman’s crime, anyway.”
“Oh?” Sergeant Johnson said. “You think so?”
“Of course. It’s well known
, isn’t it?” Bert said. “Everybody knows that women are too delicate to stab or shoot. The easiest way for them to get rid of someone is to do something simpler, less violent, like discreetly slipping a powder or pill into a stew.”
“If that’s so,” Hallie said, “have you asked yourself why it was John, and not anyone else, who was killed by the poison? That stew wasn’t just intended for John to eat.”
Bert turned pale as the implication of her words sunk in. “Well I’ll be! I never considered that!”
Sergeant Johnson gave Hallie a quizzical look. She knew that John had been murdered with two sources of poison, so what was she doing implying that the murderer was targeting the others?
Hallie turned her eagle eyes on Bert sharply. “I’d be careful what I put in my mouth if I were you,” she said.
Bert took out a handkerchief and mopped his head. “Oh this is too much! You can’t mean what you’re saying—is it really possible that a murderer is loose in Warrenton and that any one of us could be next?”
Hallie asked, “Do you believe that’s possible?”
“No,” Bert said, shaking his head. He seemed to be trying to convince himself rather than her. “I’m telling you, John was definitely the only target, and Sheila was definitely the murderer. That’s the most—” He hesitated. “That’s the most logical conclusion.”
“Is it?” Hallie asked. “Or merely the most convenient?”
“You’ll be surprised to find that real life isn’t an Arthur Conan Doyle mystery,” Sergeant Johnson said, pinning Hallie with a disapproving look. “Nine times out of ten, when it comes to murder, the most obvious solution is the correct one.”
“I’ll defer to your superior judgement,” Hallie said, sounding as though she didn’t believe a word he’d just said. Sergeant Johnson bristled a little but then controlled himself. Turning to Bert, he said, “Your version of the events of the evening matches with what Gladys said perfectly. Are there any other points you’d like to make? Apart from Sheila, is there anybody who you think could have committed this crime?”