‘Do you know what was the name of the woman the señor was seeing just before the señora died?’
‘Elizabeth Stevenage.’
‘But . . . but Betty Stevenage came out to Mallorca with Señor Heron and after he died from heart trouble she decided to leave the island and then she died — from mussel poisoning.’
Inchcape said: ‘Now there’s a coincidence!’ Then he drank and emptied his glass.
‘It cannot be a coincidence: I swear to that. Both women must have been murdered.’
‘Didn’t you have a PM on Betty Stevenage?’
‘There was one, yes, but the body was not found for a month and by then there had been so much putrefaction that no precise cause of death could be ascertained. All the surrounding circumstances suggested mussel poisoning. Now that I know this, though, I also know . . .’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘I can be almost certain that she was murdered.’
‘Are you sure you can go that far? After all, as I’ve told you, Mrs Heron wasn’t murdered, she died from mytilotoxin poisoning. Accidental death.’
‘The post-mortem result has to be wrong. I must speak to the pathologist and try to show him that he has missed something. Any man can miss something, even a man like Detective-Inspector Fletcher.’
‘I think you’re wrong there.’ Inchcape smiled. He stood. ‘Let’s have the other half, then. What was yours?’
CHAPTER XIX
In Menton Cross, a smaller town than Bearstone but with far more character, the mortuary was a modern two-storey building not far from divisional HQ. The post-mortem room, beautifully equipped and looking like an operating theatre with its central adjustable table under an enclosed pod of overhead lights, was to the right of the building and behind this was a small office. Professor Keen spoke to Alvarez in here.
He was a friendly man, with a round, smiling face, and an air of quiet competence. He shook hands with Alvarez and Detective-Sergeant Inchcape, then indicated the two chairs which had been set out in front of the desk. He settled on the edge of the desk, took off his spectacles, and rubbed the side of his nose where the rests had irritated the skin.
Inchcape said: ‘Mr Alvarez wanted to have a word with you about the Heron case, sir. There are one or two facts he needs to check up on because they may be connected with a case he’s handling in Mallorca.’
‘Yes, you mentioned that over the phone.’ He reached across the desk, opened a folder, and brought out a sheet of paper which he read very briefly. ‘OK. Fire away.’
‘Señor, in Mallorca a woman has died from mytilotoxin poisoning after eating mussels and her name was Betty Stevenage. She came to the island with Señor Heron, who died a month before because of his heart.’
‘I see.’ He replaced his spectacles.
‘It would seem a very great coincidence.’
‘I’d agree.’
‘So I am wondering . . . Can it really be a coincidence ?’
Keen slid off the desk and went round to sit. He pulled the folder round, studied one of the papers left inside it, then looked up at Alvarez. ‘Presumably what you’d really like to know is if there’s any chance I made a mistake in my autopsy on Monica Heron?’
‘I regret the necessity, señor.’
‘Don’t give it a thought — no one else ever does. I can answer you very briefly. It is quite certain that Monica Heron died from mytilotoxin poisoning, as a result of eating contaminated mussels.’
‘There remains no possibility of doubt?’
‘I think the best way of answering you is to give you a brief resume of all the facts. As always, when this case was referred to me I asked for the full background. The two people had eaten mussels in a prepared sauce. The first symptoms of illness began not long afterwards. Both suffered prickling in the fingers and tingling in the throat and mouth and this tingling spread over their bodies, causing considerable distress. Heron described the sensation as feeling as if his hands were made of fur: this is a well documented symptom, sometimes described as the “glove feeling”. They suffered cold sweats and shivering, which led up to a deadly chill — as if all the blood in their bodies had turned to ice water. They suffered agonizing pains around the body and head, in particular about the heart. Mrs Heron suffered circulatory paralysis and cardiac distress after about three hours.
‘Now these symptoms are wholly consistent with poisoning from two entirely different sources. The first is mytilotoxin. It’s a poison which is found in some mussels and is particularly connected with their breeding season, that is during the summer months. Some places grow mussels far more likely to contain this poison than others and to the best of my knowledge no one has ever yet been able to explain on scientific grounds why. The most famous example is South Darkpoint on the east coast — here, the taking of mussels is now banned from April through to September. As one might expect, there are people fool enough to ignore the ban and most of them suffer no ill effects, but some suffer mild symptoms of poisoning, a few become very ill, and there is the occasional death. Naturally, if the mussel is dead before being prepared, then the danger is far worse.
‘The second form of poison is the alkaloid aconite which comes from the monkshood plant. The roots of this are occasionally eaten in mistake for horse radish, usually with fatal results. As a matter of interest, although it is a deadly poison, in therapeutic doses it is very effective in relieving some pains, such as neuralgias. A lot of poisons have this dual identity-rather a fascinating subject.
‘I’ve mentioned all this at some length to show why, when I commenced the PM, I could be reasonably certain that Mrs Heron had died from either mytilotoxin or aconitine poisoning. Examination showed she had died from mytilotoxin and there was no trace whatsoever of aconite in her body.
‘I asked Mr Heron, who made an excellent recovery, where he’d bought the mussels and he told me from a shop in Soho. They’d been in their shells and imported from Spain. His wife had developed a very considerable appetite and he bought quite a quantity and cooked and served these at the one meal. His estimate was that she’d eaten at least four-fifths of the mussels, so it’s no wonder she was taken fatally ill since it’s quite possible that the majority of these mussels were poisonous.
‘The authorities were informed and they investigated the matter. As I understand it, the Spanish exporters and refuse to accept any blame. However, Mrs Heron was killed by mytilotoxin poisoning so one has to accept the fact that a mistake must have been made.’
Alvarez, his shoulders hunched, stared down at his shoes. ‘It is very strange,’ he said, after a while. ‘When a man marries a woman for her money and seeks his pleasures elsewhere and she threatens to throw him out of the house if he does not behave himself, then dies a violent death, it is very strange to discover she died accidentally.’ The pathologist smiled briefly. ‘You sound as if you’re a cynic.’
A cynic? He hoped he was not that. A cynic was contemptuous of people: he believed in people. But as a detective . . .
Detective-Inspector Fletcher, not a hair out of line, tie exactly centred, shirt uncreased, suit immaculate, met Alvarez just outside the main entrance to county HQ. ‘I hear you had a wasted morning,’ he said, not without a hint of malice.
Alvarez, certain he looked as dowdy as Fletcher looked smart, said: ‘It was very kind of you to arrange everything.’
‘I gather the PM was properly conducted after all?’
‘Indeed, señor.’
‘It’s one of the advantages of this country. We can always accept the PM report without the slightest hesitation.’
‘It was just that it seemed to me I must find out for certain about Señora Heron.’
Fletcher nodded. Clearly, one had to make allowances for foreigners who, of necessity, lacked experience.
The plane turned slowly and the starboard wing dipped to let Alvarez look down at the dramatic northern coastline. They swept over mountains and crossed the plain and as they slowly descended, their shadow playing tag w
ith the Don Quixote windmills, he could see patchwork fields, a few animals, houses sleeping in the sunshine, and empty roads. The island of calm. So different from that grey, over-populated, frenetic island he had left only two hours before.
He heard the grinding noise of the wheels being lowered and he closed his eyes. Most crashes occurred on take-off or landing. Sometimes a few passengers survived and that was why he had chosen a seat by one of the emergency exits.
There was a slight bump, a change of engine note, and they were down and safe. He opened his eyes and looked out at the airport buildings, fronted by flowers. Home. Sunshine.
There was no one there to meet him, but he was neither surprised nor bothered, even though a Telex message had been sent through. Probably the Guardia detailed to come in and fetch him had forgotten . . . These things happened.
He went out of the main building and could feel the sunshine soaking through him, driving out the dismal damp which had accumulated over the past four days. He crossed to the waiting tourist buses and found one which was going to Puerto Llueso. The driver was asleep, sprawled out in one of the double seats and Alvarez sat on the other side of the gangway. He closed his eyes and gratefully let the world drift by.
When he walked into the house and Dolores saw him, she shouted= ‘You’re back!’ She rushed forward and hugged him. Then she stepped back. ‘But so pale and thin! They’ve been starving you. Thank God I’ve prepared a solid dinner. There’s beans and ham and after that chicken and rice with peppers and garlic . . .’
‘Say no more. By the time I go to bed I’ll have put on all the weight I’ve lost.’
Juan and Isabel entered the house and after their initial excitement waited with an expectation which was not disappointed. He gave Isabel a pair of gold ear-rings in the shape of horseshoes and Juan a working model kit of a tank. Jaime arrived half an hour later and after shaking hands and speaking a few warm words of greeting he hurried through to the dining-room and brought back two glasses filled with brandy.
‘You’re not going to drink all that before the meal,’ said Dolores belligerently.
‘When a man returns home,’ replied Jaime, ‘he needs a drink to clear his throat.’
‘But not one big enough to drown it.’ She was, however, smiling.
When Alvarez went up to his bedroom he opened the shutters which had been closed throughout the day to keep out the sun and he looked over the rooftops at Puig Antonia. The hermitage on the crown of the sugar loaf mountain, which housed the remains of Santa Antonia, was still just visible since dusk had not yet quite become night. Santa Antonia, he said silently, if I were not so old and short of breath I would climb up tomorrow to light a candle for you in thanks for bringing me safely back here to the people I love and who love me.
Alvarez dialled the Institute of Forensic Anatomy and then propped his feet up on the desk. A gecko looking round the outside corner of the window saw him and in one quick squiggle of movement disappeared.
When the connection was made, he asked to speak to Professor Fortunato.
‘What is it?’ asked a sharp, crackling voice which suggested a man of very small temper.
‘Señor, this is Inspector Alvarez from Llueso. I’m sorry to bother you, but because of something I’ve recently learned I’d very much like to ask you a question concerning the autopsy on Señorita Stevenage.’
‘Well — what’s the question?’
‘Señor, could the deceased have died from aconitine poisoning, not mytilotoxin poisoning? The reason for asking is that there’s now evidence to suggest this was possible.’
‘Wait, please, while I look at my file.’
He lit a cigarette. It would be ironic if he discovered that it was the Mallorquin post-mortem which had made the mistake.
‘Have you read the report?’
‘Of course, señor.’
‘I’ve nothing more to add to what I wrote then.’
‘Señor, I’ve just returned from England and over there I discovered that Señor Heron, the man with whom the señorita was living before he died from natural causes, had been married to a wealthy woman and she died last year from mytilotoxin poisoning. It seems to be too great a coincidence truly to be one. And while I was in England I learned that the symptoms of the two poisonings are similar.’
‘Did you there also learn that tests for aconitine poisoning are confined to biological assay dependant on the isolation of the aconite, which is destroyed by putrefaction?’
‘No, señor.’
‘Then before you again decide to question an expert’s findings, I suggest you make certain you have mastered your own brief.’
He replaced the receiver. Fool, he thought, meaning himself. According to the records, Señorita Stevenage had died a natural death. So why had he needlessly stirred up trouble? He let his head sink down on to his chest. What strange bubble of perversity could possess him? A belief in justice? But true justice was incapable of definition because it could only exist subjectively. A love of the truth? At times truth could hurt so much more than lies. So why . . . ?
CHAPTER XX
Alvarez stepped into Francisca’s house and called out. She hurried into the entrance room. ‘I didn’t know you were back. Come on into the other room and pour yourself a drink and then tell me all about England. Is it like it is on the telly? Did you see the palace and the guards . . . ?’
He had one drink and then another and it was time for luncheon and by chance she had prepared a dish for Miguel which she knew was a favourite of his . . . He ate very well and after the meal she insisted he sat in the most comfortable chair in the sitting-room to digest.
It was after five when he awoke, to find Francisca sitting opposite him and embroidering a sheet. He hurried to his feet. ‘I must get moving fast.’
‘Why?’ she asked peacefully. ‘What will have turned up which can’t wait while you pause to clear your mind and drink a cup of coffee with a slice of sponge with angel’s hair jam to go with the coffee?’
‘Angel’s hair jam?’
‘That’s right.’ She looked artlessly at him. ‘Didn’t Dolores once tell me you’d something of a sweet tooth?’
Most things, he thought, as he sat down again and settled in the chair, sorted themselves out if only one left them alone to do so.
It was while he was eating his third slice of sponge cake that he said: ‘Francisca, you remember Señorita Stevenage?’
‘What a peculiar question. But of course I remember her.’
‘Didn’t you once tell me that she’d had a dog?’
‘That’s right. It was really jolly, but had such long trailing hair it was always getting that awful grass stuck in it and what a job it was then to untangle its coat.’
‘Was she fond of it?’
‘It was absolutely ridiculous. When all’s said and done, a dog is only a dog, not a child. Yet she’d talk to it as if it were her only son and cuddle it in her arms . . . We can’t all be the same, which I suppose is just as well, but if I’d been her I’d have given more of my affection to the man I was living with and less to my dog.’
‘Have I got it right that the dog died very suddenly?’
‘I arrived at the finca one morning and there was the señorita, in floods of tears. I can remember thinking, so it’s happened at last. Well, the señor had finally found peace. Then I heard him calling from upstairs. It gave me quite a turn, I can tell you: just like hearing a voice coming up from a grave. So when she came downstairs and the tears were still falling I said, “What is the matter, señorita? Has you dear father died?” And she told me it was the dog. All those tears were for that little dog!’
‘Did she know why it had died?’
‘She’d no idea. One moment it had seemed all right, the next it had been violently sick and unable to stand.’
‘Have you any idea what happened to the body?’
‘She told the gardener to bury it. I seem to remember there was even some form of tombstone.
’
‘Who was their gardener?’
‘It was only old Rafael Yarza who came one morning a week. D’you know what he charged them? A hundred and ten pesetas an hour! And that was for leaning on his mattock and staring at the land. But they never seemed to worry that their money was just standing around, doing nothing.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Somewhere along the Calle Mostet.’
‘Well, I really must be getting along now.’ He stood up.
‘Thanks for everything. I’ve eaten and drunk far too much.’
‘And had a bit of a sleep, which you needed more than anything else.’
He left and drove past shuttered houses to Calle Mostet, a narrow street without pavements which sloped quite steeply upwards. Some children were playing hop scotch and from one of the girls he learned which was Yarza’s house.
Yarza lived with his daughter and her family and from the way in which she spoke it was clear that at times his presence became resented. ‘Dad’s out at the back so if you want to talk to him you’d better go through. And tell him he left his stuff all over the front room again.’
He went through the kitchen and out to the courtyard. This was small, but the beds were filled with colour and in the centre were two orange trees, leaves dark green and the following winter’s crop thick on the branches.
For a Mallorquin, Yarza was a large man: he’d just begun to bow and shrink from age. He hadn’t shaved that day, but his clothes were clean, if darned, and his shoes were well polished. He studied Alvarez, but didn’t speak.
Alvarez examined the nearer orange tree. ‘What d’you do to the soil to get the trees to grow like this ?’
‘Plant ‘em over a dead cat and then give ‘em lots of dung, that’s what. None of them artificials.’ Yarza hawked and spat, showing his contempt for artificial fertilizers.
‘I’m from the Cuerpo General . . . ’
‘Bloody hell, d’you think I don’t know who you are?’
Murder Begets Murder Page 10