Poison Flowers

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘Northcote,’ called Emma over her shoulder. ‘See you in London, I hope.’

  Chapter Nine

  Willow telephoned Tom Worth as soon as she got back to London.

  ‘Tom?’ she said in relief as she recognised his human voice rather than the recorded version. ‘I’m back from the funeral; I haven’t discovered much, but I’ve come across something that seems to be one connecting link between them all. Can we meet, or are you busy?’

  ‘Let’s meet,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come here?’

  ‘To your flat?’ said Willow, rather surprised because she had never crossed his threshold. ‘Yes, all right. Thank you.’

  He gave her the address in Pimlico and directions, and for once she took her car, an almost vulgarly luxurious Mercedes that she had bought very soon after she first made money. She was curious to see Tom’s flat, but even more eager to discuss with him the possible relevance of Hampshire Place, the expensive and fairly exclusive school for girls.

  When she reached the flat Tom would not let her tell him anything until he had taken her black coat and poured her a glass of wine. She sat sipping it and looking around the room, which was large, and peaceful. The walls were painted white, the carpet was a subtle, slightly bluish, dark-grey, the lamps black with white shades, the upholstery white and the cushions startling pink. There was no pattern anywhere except in a large abstract painting that hung on the wall opposite the empty fireplace and in a colossal pink-and-white azalea planted in a nineteenth-century famille rose pot. The room was the complete antithesis of everything that Willow had tried to achieve in her own flat, and yet she liked it: the calm, the order and the emptiness pleased as much as they surprised her.

  ‘You look better in that green,’ said Tom, referring to the dress she had been wearing under her funereal coat. ‘Now, tell me: what is the link you have discovered between the victims?’

  ‘All of them in one way or another are connected with Hampshire Place – the boarding school for girls in the New Forest,’ she said, adding caustically, ‘and there’s no need to look as though you think I’m a lunatic.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised that I was,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘I’m interested in your conclusions, if not particularly hopeful. Tell me more.’

  ‘Edith Fernside was matron there for sixteen years. Claire Ullathorne was a pupil. Simon Titchmell’s sister was there and so was Bruterley’s wife. It’s too much of a coincidence to be merely – well, coincidence. But I’m a bit stuck now. I can’t think of any way to go down there and grill the staff … except,’ Willow said as she thought of an excuse, ‘as a prospective parent. Perhaps we should go together?’

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ said Tom, looking at her so seriously that Willow quickly changed the subject.

  ‘There’s one other thing, Tom. May I tell one other person about all this?’ He shook his head straight away. ‘There is a reason,’ Willow went on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The DPR psychiatrist on my board is interested in something called offender profiling. I’ve talked to him about it and I think it’s possible that he could help. If …’

  ‘Willow, he’s a Civil Servant,’ said Tom. ‘Very few of them are like you, in my limited experience, despite their fearsome oaths of secrecy. I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, I’m not sure profiling would be much use on this case; ours are not classic serial killings.’

  ‘So I understand,’ she said. At the look on Tom’s face, she added: ‘He explained the American studies and the kinds of cases they’ve worked on over there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I also,’ added Willow, not wanting to lie by omission or even by implication, ‘tried him out by pretending to invent some of our cases. What he said was that we should look for someone – probably a man – with an unusually high mixture of vanity and inadequacy.’

  ‘That’s bloody helpful! I can think of lots,’ said Tom with a laugh in his voice. ‘But none come to mind who have anything to do with schools like Hampshire Place.’

  ‘Do you know anything about it?’ she asked. ‘Everyone except me seems to.’ Tom grinned and rubbed his broken nose.

  ‘Well, yes, Willow, in fact I do,’ he said. ‘One of my nieces is there at the moment.’

  ‘That’s the answer,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go down there tomorrow and take her out to tea? Oh no, I can’t; I’m committed to Simon Titchmell’s sister tomorrow. But you could, Tom.’

  ‘Giving me orders, eh, Willow?’

  ‘Yes, I am. You shouldn’t have turned the investigation over to me if you didn’t want me to lead it,’ she said a little stiffly.

  ‘All right; though it’s difficult to imagine what I could possibly find out. I’d better give my sister a ring and set it up. The school would probably have me arrested as a child molester if I turned up unannounced. There’s a casserole in the oven; why don’t you go and give it a stir while I telephone?’

  About to say that she did not want to interfere with his cooking, Willow realised that he wanted privacy and went silently into his little kitchen. It was as spotlessly clean as the rest of the flat and much more individual and better equipped than she would have expected of a bachelor. Willow mentally kicked herself. Until Tom’s presence in her life had forced her to think about her own attitudes she had always thought of herself as wholly untainted by sexism; but in his company she was becoming aware that in her own way she was almost as bad as the Dr Salcott she had met on the train to Jim Bruterley’s memorial service.

  When she heard the final ‘ping’of the telephone, she went back into the drawing room. Tom was standing by the telephone, looking down at the floor.

  ‘Trouble?’ said Willow. He looked round at the sound of her voice and shook his head.

  ‘Not trouble, merely that it’s the school holidays at the moment. Curious how one forgets that sort of thing,’ he said. Willow laughed.

  ‘My sister was surprised at my unwonted avuncular concern and suggested that I go and have lunch with them instead tomorrow,’ Tom went on.

  ‘You sound reluctant.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Tom. ‘Oh, to be truthful, I suppose I am. Her husband takes a dim view of my current occupation and I find myself very bored by his attitudes – and, worse, his jokes. Never mind; I like her and it’s a long time since I’ve seen her. I don’t imagine I’ll discover anything about the school, but I’ll listen to my niece’s prattle and see what happens. How’s the stew?’

  ‘Smelling delectable,’ said Willow. ‘Where did you learn to cook?’

  ‘At the Sarah Kensington School,’ he said, daring her to laugh at him. Willow dared.

  ‘Among all the debs? I somehow can’t imagine it. But what an imaginative mother you must have had,’ she said.

  ‘You are outrageous,’ said Tom. ‘It had nothing to do with my mother, who died before I even joined the army. When I came out I knew I’d have to look after myself, and I thought I’d rather leam to cook that sort of food than the brown-rice healthy variety. Now, let’s go and eat it.’

  As they ate Willow was touched by the care Tom had put into his hospitality and even more impressed by his culinary skills than she let him see. The casserole was as good as anything Mrs Rusham produced, with perfectly tender beef, nuggets of bacon that had somehow stayed crisp despite their long cooking, mushrooms, carrots and a thick sauce that tasted of wine. There was garlic in it somewhere, but in carefully moderate quantities. There were baked potatoes with crisp skins and a salad. It seemed strange that anyone of Tom’s energy and violent past should have the patience to cook like that.

  When she had finished, Willow refused a second helping but with regret.

  ‘It was wonderful,’ she said sincerely, ‘but I’m full.’

  He helped himself to more without making any sort of fuss and settled down to eat again.

  ‘Tom,’ said Willow after a moment. He looked up and nodded.

  ‘I’m sure we could use so
me of the profiling techniques even if this poisoner isn’t a real serial murderer. I’m not nagging you about letting me tell the psychiatrist, but suggesting we borrow the technique.’

  ‘OK. How would you start?’

  ‘The killer is obviously reasonably well educated,’ began Willow, thinking of the shadowy character who was beginning to obsess her. ‘It’s relatively easy to find out about these poisons, but it would be far easier to bludgeon, throttle or even set fire to people … Have you got any paper?’

  ‘Plenty. Why?’

  ‘Like most Civil Servants I think more easily with pencil and paper than without,’ answered Willow. She watched as Tom walked over to a plain matt-black desk in the corner of the room. It was curious, she thought, how his strength was apparent in every movement. He came back with a large plain-paper pad and a selection of writing implements. Willow chose a black felt-tipped pen with an italic tip and wrote the numbers from one to twenty in a neat line down the left-hand side of the top page.

  ‘Being a bit optimistic, aren’t you?’ said Tom.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she answered. ‘There must be at least twenty characteristics we could deduce from the evidence left in these killings. Here, this one’s for you,’ She handed him the numbered sheet and then proceeded to draw up another for herself, thinking that if she were to pin down some aspects of the vague character of the killer, it might become more definite in her mind and easier to project into real suspicion.

  ‘I need coffee to deal with this,’ said Tom. ‘I won’t be long.’ Unhurriedly he collected the plates and dishes and carried them off to the kitchen, leaving Willow to her numbers.

  1.

  Intelligence. Familiarity with scientific terms. Ability to calculate fatal dose. Some scientific training.

  2.

  Inadequate/vain.

  3.

  Belonging or aspiring to upper-middle class.

  4.

  Angry. Misfit.

  5.

  Connection with Hampshire Place School.

  6.

  Efficient. Careful.

  7.

  Ability to play social worker/health visitor convincingly.

  8.

  Interest in detective fiction.

  9.

  Not necessarily physically strong.

  10.

  Therefore, if a man, not particularly concerned with machismo.

  11.

  Daring.

  ‘Here you are.’ Tom’s voice interrupted Willow’s cogitation. ‘You drink it black after meals, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. There was a deep crease between her eyebrows.

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Tom, standing behind her and reading her list over her shoulder. After a while he said, ‘I agree with some of them, but I don’t quite see how you’ve arrived at 3, 4, 7, 8 and 10.’

  Willow turned in her chair to look up at Tom’s intent face. His eyes were focussed on her list but as she moved he looked instead at her. A smile creased the corners of his eyes and widened his mouth. He bent and very quickly kissed her.

  ‘Three is easy,’ said Willow coolly, thinking it inappropriate that he had interrupted a serious discussion with a kiss and yet unable to pretend that she had not liked it. ‘Three of the four victims so far belong to that class – and if the only book I’ve found on offender profiling is right it is likely that these murderers choose their victims from the class they consider has injured them or somehow thwarted them.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Tom, returning to his own chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘And the others?’

  ‘Four is because I cannot imagine anyone going to the trouble of killing anyone else if they were not angry in some degree. Seven is because Miss Fernside must have had lots of visits from rent-control officers, social workers, meals-on-wheels people, and they are the only strangers I can imagine her letting into her bungalow. If our murderer did not break in, then the only way I can see that he could have got in to substitute a poisoned bottle of sloe gin for hers is by pretending to be someone like that,’ said Willow, drawing a neat picture of her coffee cup on the list of characteristics.

  ‘I suppose that’s possible. The killer would have had to have come at least twice, though, to discover her routines and decide what to poison,’ said Tom, amused to watch her doodling.

  ‘True enough. Can you talk to a neighbour or friend of hers to discover whether anyone new came to see her a little while before she died?’ asked Willow as she abandoned her drawing.

  ‘We could try, I suppose,’ said Tom gloomily, ‘if we had a bit more to go on. ‘Unless I can get up there myself … No, I don’t think we can tackle that yet. If we get near identifying a suspect then we’ve a chance. Now, what about eight?’

  ‘Eight is because something about the methods suggests a literary interest in death: that’s not a reasoned point, but I do feel it. The method is extraordinarily simple and yet apparently rarely used. It suggests imagination more than violence.’

  ‘Arty, you mean. Perhaps,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not sure that I’ve much to add to your list. Oh, except …’ He began to scribble. When he had finished he passed his list to Willow and sat back in his chair, sipping coffee. She looked with interest at what he had contributed.

  1.

  No police record.

  2.

  Probably 30 – 35 years old.

  3.

  Probably white.

  4.

  Agile.

  5.

  Neat fingered – ?some experience of model-making.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ asked Willow, sounding almost angry. ‘I’m not doing this for amusement.’

  ‘God forbid!’ said Tom. ‘What bothers you?’

  ‘Number five,’ she answered. He smiled kindly and for once she enjoyed someone else’s kindness without finding anything patronising in it.

  ‘No, that’s genuine. Our killer makes the poisons and inserts them into his victims’food and drink in a way that leaves no trace on packet or bottle. I think that suggests someone who is used to dealing with inert materials – as well as the plants themselves – on a fairly small scale: ergo, model-maker.’

  ‘And some experience of botany,’ added Willow. ‘Could you recognise colchicum seeds if you saw them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom apologetically, ‘and digitalis and …’

  ‘I know, aconite,’ said Willow, with a mocking smile in her green eyes. ‘And you know that the poisonous one is not the little yellow flower. But I don’t suppose many ordinary people are so botanically aware. How do you know?’

  ‘I rather like gardening,’ he admitted. ‘I have a roof garden here and I plant it up with all sorts of things. One gets to know plants quite quickly. Anyone brought up in a house with a big garden – as I was – learns that sort of thing without even noticing.’

  ‘So we should add “Familiarity with flowering plants. Query brought up in the country”,’ said Willow. ‘Well, between us we have seventeen points so far. Not too bad. Now tell me why you don’t think there’s a police record.’

  ‘Various finger prints have been found at one or other scene-of-the-crime, and none matches any in the files. It may be coincidence, but I imagine the killer has left prints and we just haven’t one to match them,’ said Tom.

  ‘Are there any prints at any of the scenes that match any at the others?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘I had hopes of Cheltenham, but there aren’t any yet.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Willow, ‘it’s just as likely that all the extraneous prints are innocent and our quarry may have a record after all and know enough to wear surgical gloves.’ She added a question mark to the first point on Tom’s list. ‘I just wish we had some way of knowing whether it was a man or a woman.’

  ‘Any gut feeling?’ asked Tom. Willow shook her head. The figure in her mind was nearly always male, but having no evidence of the killer’s sex she was wary of putting her instinct into wo
rds. ‘All I am certain of,’ she said slowly, ‘is that man or woman, the killer must be able to hide behind a civilised front.’

  ‘I think you’re right about that,’ said Tom.

  ‘It’s a vile thought,’ said Willow, shivering unconsciously. She stood up. Tom looked up at her.

  ‘You sound frightened,’ he said seriously. Willow shook her loose red hair away from her face and tried to work out what she really did feel.

  ‘It’s just the thought that it could be anyone … someone I’ve talked to … someone I’ve liked, even. It’s the thought of all that hidden malice – wickedness – that’s so horrible, and … oh, it’s like dry rot I suppose: creeping, fatal evil hidden behind an apparently healthy solid exterior. Ugh!’ She shook her head again and remembered the discovery of dry rot in her parents’austere home in Newcastle when she was a child and how she had stood at the edge of the afflicted room, staring down at the innocent-looking, mushroom-smelling white threads that were destroying the fabric of the house. She had known long before then that she could not rely on people’s benevolence; it was after the dry rot that she had learned not to trust inanimate things either.

  ‘I suppose I ought to be going,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven.’

  ‘Unless you’d like to stay?’ suggested Tom. ‘I make quite nice breakfasts too.’

  ‘No, thank you, Tom,’ said Willow, but both her face and her voice softened as she spoke. ‘I … I need to …’

  ‘Be alone,’ he supplied. ‘It’s allowed. Thank you for coming. If I get anywhere tomorrow I’ll let you know.’

  ‘And I,’ said Willow. ‘Good night, Tom.’ She held his face between her hands for a moment and then kissed him. ‘Don’t bother to come down. I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘Willow,’ he said as she reached the door. She looked back. ‘If you do get frightened, will you send for me?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Don’t come down.’