by Alan Hunter
‘Now, listen . . .’
‘Hadn’t you better address your remarks to the Superintendent?’
‘Greta . . . you can’t . . . !’
His fists were clenching, the fat cheeks beginning to gleam.
‘If you imagine . . .’
He broke off, staring past her at someone who’d come to the fence. It was Raynes’s domestic; her face papery, she stood huge-eyed, trying to speak.
Raynes took a step towards her.
‘What is it now, Norah?’
Disturbingly, she burst into tears. Through sobs she blurted:
‘It’s the missus . . . something’s wrong. I can’t wake her up.’
The French doors were still ajar; Mrs Raynes was lying on a couch not far from them. An elaborate reproduction piece, it seemed to dwarf the frail body stretched upon it.
She lay on her back, head tilted, mouth open, snoring. One arm was trailing; on the floor lay an album open at pictures of a young woman with children.
There was no cup or glass by her; her snoring was subdued, slowly regular.
‘Mother . . . oh Mother!’
Weeping like a child, Clive Raynes dropped beside the couch. With the aid of his brother and younger sister he raised the senseless woman to a sitting position. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
‘Clivey . . .’
‘Mother!’
‘Let me sleep, Clivey . . .’
Raynes stood staring as though thunderstruck; Greta Swafield with shocked eyes.
Gently grabbed the blubbering domestic.
‘No nonsense! What has she taken?’
Roaring afresh, the woman sobbed:
‘She hant taken nothing . . . just a cup of coffee!’
‘Coffee!’
Behind him he heard Raynes suck in breath; on a table still stood the tray of cups that Mrs Raynes had brought in.
‘Keep away from them!’
‘She was going to do for the lot of us . . . !’
The number of cups on the tray was three; dainty cups, probably Coalport, with the coffee in them cooled and filming.
‘You . . . me . . . and him. We’d have been stretched out here like pigs!’
‘Just see they’re not touched!’
‘But Christ alive – I knew she was weak in the head, but this . . .’
To a queasy-looking Ives, Gently snapped: ‘Phone for an ambulance and forensic!’ Then, to Florence Raynes, who was standing at his elbow: ‘You know the trouble – what’s the remedy?’
‘An emetic and keeping her awake.’
Florence Raynes at least had stayed cool; though pale, she had an air of collected resolution.
‘Brine?’
She nodded.
‘Hang on a minute.’
He strode across to the couch. Hauling away the tearful Clive, he struck Mrs Raynes two resounding slaps. Her eyes sprang open.
‘Now . . . if you want your mother to live!’
Ignoring their aghast faces, he lugged the woman up from the couch.
‘Two of you – you and you!’
Noel Raynes and John Meeson hoisted her between them; her head lolling, feet dragging, she moaned:
‘Oh . . . let me sleep . . .’
‘Walk her up and down!’
They were having to carry her, but moans confirmed that she was conscious. Every now and then she gave a jerk of her head, to mumble afresh:
‘Please . . . let me sleep!’
‘Right – come on then!’
Florence Raynes led him through the hall to the kitchen. A large, overwarm room, it was dominated by a gas-Aga. On a unit with other clutter was a coffee-percolator and two cups; the domestic, who’d trailed behind them, suddenly broke into a wail.
‘I had a cup out of that!’
‘Which cup is Mrs Raynes’s?’
‘I don’t want to die . . . !’
Having pointed it out, she collapsed on a chair to wail and blubber into her apron.
‘She must have put it in the cups,’ Florence Raynes murmured.
‘And in the one you handed to Best.’
‘But it wasn’t me . . .’
He nodded. ‘Not you who watched her pouring out . . .’
In a drawer he found polythene bags, into one of which he packed the cup. Meanwhile Florence Raynes was spooning salt into a jug and slaking it with water.
Ives came in:
‘Forensic is coming . . . the ambulance will be here any minute.’
‘Catch hold of that plastic bowl. Forensic are bound to ask for the vomit.’
Back in the lounge Raynes still stood by the tray, eyes fascinated with the cups. Mrs Raynes they’d sat in a chair, where they were pumping her arms and patting her cheeks.
‘Cruel . . . cruel . . . let me sleep . . . !’
‘Right – let’s have her back on the couch.’
Noel Raynes picked her up like a baby, carried her to the couch and laid her on it.
‘No-no . . . Clivey . . .’
Florence Raynes poured brine. Carole Meeson supported her mother’s head. With great firmness Florence Raynes grasped the wrinkled face, applied pressure and tipped glass to mouth.
Mrs Raynes struggled and gagged; brine spilled down her chin and neck. Half-chokingly, her throat worked and the brine emptied from the glass.
‘Quick – the bowl!’
What came up was cloudy liquid streaked with green. Choking and groaning, she spit it out, her hazy eyes wandering.
‘Another dose . . .’
‘No . . . !’
Clive Raynes’s voice was shrill with appeal.
Paying no attention, his wife refilled the glass and went through the process again.
This time the effect was more violent, a comprehensive evacuation. After it, Mrs Raynes lay gasping, face and clothing smeared.
‘Tidy her up . . .’
The bowl of vomit went to join the tray and cups. Seeing it, Raynes shuddered and moved away from the table.
‘Do you think she’ll pull through . . . ?’
Gently stared at him. ‘Physically . . . perhaps.’
‘What’ll you do?’
Gently said nothing. Behind him, they were back to their pumping and patting.
‘Listen . . . if Swoff had kept his mouth shut . . .’
‘I’d already guessed the situation.’
‘But you couldn’t have proved it . . .’
‘If I’d talked to her . . . ?’
‘If . . . might that be the reason why . . . ?’
Driving hands into pockets, he gazed fiercely at the scene round the couch; then, with a growl, went to pick up the album, from which he wiped spots of vomit.
‘Her bloody kids . . . what she wouldn’t do for them.’
In pretended carelessness, he turned the leaves.
‘These were when we first came to live here . . .’
In the end he tossed the album on a shelf.
‘So . . . what’s it to be?’
Clive Raynes, surprisingly, had come out of his maudlin grief; along with his brother and Meeson he was earnestly chivvying the groaning woman.
Swafield, who’d been keeping in the background, now had found courage to pour himself a drink. His scratched face flushed, he sat hugging the glass and sending his wife little helpless glances.
Greta Swafield was stationed near the couch. But she too had been pushed from the limelight. Sulkily she watched the proceedings, giving herself now and then smoothing touches.
‘Sir . . . the ambulance.’
There was a moment’s confusion as the two attendants arrived with a rolled stretcher. After a hurried conference, Carole Meeson raced out to pack her mother an overnight bag.
One of the attendants approached Gently:
‘The vomit . . . we ought to take that.’
‘Just a sample.’
A container was found and a specimen of vomit spooned into it.
Then they were away, the room suddenly
emptying as everyone ran out to the cars. On the sweep, Raynes jumped in with his eldest son, Greta Swafield joined the Meesons.
‘Not you . . . !’
His car door open, Noel Raynes turned to face Gently.
‘Listen, she’s my mother too—!’
‘Just stand aside from the car.’
Noel Raynes’s fist shot out; a moment later, he was sprawling on the chippings.
As the ambulance and cars drove away, other cars arrived: forensic, patrolmen.
THIRTEEN
‘BUT YOU’VE GOT nothing on me—!’
It took less than five minutes for forensic to begin their operation. In the meantime Gently had ignored Noel Raynes, from whom he’d taken the keys of the Super Minx.
Outside, uniformed men stood about; in the lounge, Ives was taking a statement from the domestic; then Wallace had turned up, full of curiosity, to be escorted to the herb-garden with a trowel.
Everything under control . . . and Gently with his pipe stoked up, gazing out of the window!
Almost he seemed to have forgotten Noel Raynes, who nevertheless was tagging him close.
‘Am I under arrest . . . ?’
‘Do you want to make a statement?’
‘No! I—’
Gently puffed on.
Also in the lounge was Arthur Swafield, who didn’t seem to know whether to go or stay. Still clinging to his glass, he watched uneasily the proceedings of Ives and the men from forensic.
‘From the kitchen drain . . .’
Straight away they’d spotted some pounded vegetable fibres. Then there was a pestle and mortar, each exhibiting green stain.
‘Look, I demand to know—!’
‘Tell me when you’re ready to make your statement.’
‘But I’ve nothing to say!’
Unperturbed, Gently smoked and stared down at the yard.
At last Arthur Swafield made a move:
‘If you don’t want me any longer . . .’
Getting no answer, he dumped his glass and scurried out through the French doors.
It was warm in the lounge; facing south-west, it caught the full glare of the afternoon sun. Perhaps that was why Noel Raynes had begun to sweat, looking uncomfortable in his navy smock.
‘Look – I’m going too!’
‘Not yet.’
‘But you’ve no reason on earth to keep me here.’
After a slow puff, Gently said:
‘I’m trying to make up my mind whether to charge you . . .’
‘To charge me! But with what?’
‘It wasn’t your mother who faked the suicide.’
‘That could have been anyone—!’
Gently shook his head. ‘Only you knew that Best had been poisoned.’
Some moments of silence!
Ives, across the room, was witnessing the domestic’s laboured signature; two men from forensic, one wearing rubber gloves, were absorbed in decanting the vomit.
‘You know . . . I’m not going to confess.’
‘Listen to me for a moment. I’ve got enough to pull you in now on a charge of murder or accessory to murder.
‘But I’m giving you a chance – you can talk me out of it!
‘I want a full account of what happened.
‘Otherwise I’m taking you in, and you can tell your tale to a jury.’
‘But that’s not fair—!’
‘Think it over.’
The twist in Noel Raynes’s mouth was bitter. ‘You’re not giving me much option, are you? But I’m not saying a word before witnesses.’
Gently drew a few times. ‘It’s a deal!’
‘And it’ll have to be somewhere other than here.’
‘Let’s see if the door of Best’s flat is unlocked . . .’
Noel Raynes stared, saying nothing.
The door was unlocked.
Raynes’s glass of yesterday still stood on the bar, sticky with dregs; from it a bluebottle zoomed to buzz at a closed window.
Entering, Noel Raynes paused, his eyes flitting over the room, the settee. Then he went quickly into the other rooms, closing doors as he came out.
‘You’ve scarcely had time to bug it . . . !’
Ignoring him, Gently took a chair.
Noel Raynes prowled over to the window, from which one of the parked police cars was visible. Then he pointed to the phone.
‘Couldn’t I just ring the hospital?’
‘It’ll wait. Your mother will live.’
‘At least you don’t mind if I have a drink!’
‘Not if you fancy your half-brother’s whisky.’
Noel Raynes wavered, then defiantly went to the cabinet to pour one. Alone of the four children, he seemed to embody genes from both parents.
Height, features came from his father; from his mother the lanky frame. Yet somehow the blend was unfortunate, gave the impression of a faulty meld.
But the action with the glass was wholly his father’s . . .
‘First, there’s something you ought to know!’
He came back to the window, dragging over a chair so that he could overlook the approach to the steps.
‘Some years ago Mother had a stroke – just a mild one, as they go. According to the specialist, nothing to worry about as long as she took things easy.
‘But it left her a bit – you know! She hasn’t been quite the same person since . . .
‘For one thing, she seems to think that we’re still children and that she’s a young woman.
‘She lives mostly in the past . . .
‘If you like, she’s not fully responsible!
‘I doubt if she knew what she was doing that night . . . just that Ronnie was a threat from whom we had to be protected.’
He turned from the window.
Gently grunted. ‘But you – you knew what you were doing.’
‘All right – I did! But that was the situation, and perhaps you may think . . . Oh, never mind!’
He gulped spirit. Below, a constable had come round the corner of the house. He stared up at the window inquisitively before turning about and slowly retreating.
‘Look . . . you say I knew he’d been poisoned.’
‘You were standing by your mother when the coffee was poured.’
‘Yes – I admit that! But can’t you understand that at first I didn’t know what she’d done?
‘Mother has always been famous for simples – we saw plenty of that when we were kids. Ailments, cuts, bruises – even warts she could take off.
‘And it’s true what Swoff was saying. She used Nightshade on her eyes . . . pitiful, really! But she did it, trying to keep Father’s attentions at home . . .’
‘Are you telling me you thought she was giving Best a tonic?’
‘I’ll tell you exactly what I thought! That she was slipping him a Mickey Finn, so that we could carry on free from his company.
‘Poisoning simply never crossed my mind. Why should it, when I’d never known Mother to hurt a fly?
‘But if she were handing him one of her knockouts, that was kosher by me – Ronnie had it coming!’
Gently chewed on his pipe. ‘So let’s have the details.’
Noel Raynes eyed him, and sipped.
‘There were nine cups together on the tray – and a tenth cup, standing apart.’
‘So?’
‘Mother whispered to me to make sure that Ronnie was served last – not that she needed to have bothered. Flo was seeing to that anyway . . .
‘But it made me take a look at the cup by itself . . . and then I saw there was something in it.
‘Not much. Just a few drops of liquid, almost colourless.
‘It was barely wet . . .’
‘Did your mother know you’d seen it?’
He nodded. ‘She gave me a queer look. Then she glanced towards Ronnie. But I’m damn sure that killing him wasn’t in her mind.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Well, then I kept an eye on him . .
. while the others were having it out with Father! And sure enough he began to nod, seemed to have trouble holding himself straight.
‘At last he got up. I was expecting him to fall, but he could still manage his pins. He said goodnight to the old man . . . nobody much noticed . . .’
‘How soon before you followed him?’
‘Not very long.’
Noel Raynes made an awkward motion with the glass. Scowling, he stared at the whisky before taking a fresh sip.
‘All right . . . I was beginning to get worried! Not that he’d been poisoned – don’t think that. But suppose he’d collapsed coming across here . . .
‘Or on the steps . . . that was quite possible.
‘So I pretended I’d had enough and came out below there to take a look . . . there was a moon . . .
I didn’t see him. Obviously, he’d managed to get up safely.
‘At the same time the flat was in darkness, and surely he’d have switched on a light. I didn’t know quite what to make of it . . .
‘I got in my car and sat watching the flat.’
‘You didn’t speak to the others?’
‘No. Actually, I thought of tackling Clive . . . only when he came out – well, you know about that! Impossible to get him on his own.
‘So I sat for a bit, wondering.
‘My eyes must have adjusted to the darkness. Suddenly, I could see that the flat door was open.
‘At least I thought I’d better close that . . .’
He drank quickly.
‘I went in. Ronnie was stretched out on the floor. He was snoring, just like Mother.
‘Perhaps, then, I wondered if she’d given him too much.’
Away in the yard a hooter sounded, two quick blips: probably a tea-break. Then an almost subliminal whining, no doubt from a band-saw, died suddenly.
Gripping his glass tightly, Noel Raynes said:
‘That was a replay, over at the house . . . I’d been through it all before. Only the first time . . .’
‘Then, it didn’t matter.’
His head snatched in anguish. ‘Please understand! If I’d known . . . really known . . . what was going on! But I couldn’t be sure . . .
‘It was such a tiny dose . . . no more than a thimbleful at most.’
‘That was enough to have killed several people.’
‘Yes – if I’d known what it was in the first place! But in my case . . . can’t you understand? I’d had sleeping-draughts from her myself . . .’
Gently shrugged and said nothing.