A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I wish you all the luck in the world, I truly mean that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nancy. ‘Are you sure you can’t wait until I’ve answered this telephone call? I’m sure it will only take a moment.’

  ‘No, I really must be going,’ said Una, moving towards the door.

  ‘Very well – but what about your handkerchief?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, please keep it. I’m sure Unity won’t mind.’

  By the time the two women stood by the front door Davies had returned to the telephone. The servant girl had started to frown.

  ‘Ma’am?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Well, thank you once again,’ said Una, opening the door herself and stepping outside.

  ‘Ma’am?’ hissed Davies.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Nancy. ‘Just tell Mrs Peabody to wait.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘So sorry, Miss Miller.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As soon as the door closed Una ran towards her car. She opened the door and tried to start the engine. It spluttered. The damn thing. Eric had told her that it could be temperamental, but why did this have to happen now? Just as she tried again, the door opened and Nancy appeared outside.

  ‘Just a moment!’ she shouted.

  Una attempted to start the car again. The engine was still dead. Una dared not look up, but she could sense Miss Neele getting closer.

  Una forced herself to let the car rest for a moment, but in those few seconds Miss Neele had run down the driveway. The crunch of gravel grew ever louder. She was close enough now for Una to see panic and confusion in her eyes. Una tried once more and finally the car started. Just as she put her foot down on the pedal Miss Neele banged on the window, the handkerchief still clutched in her hand. As Una sped away down the lane she heard the cries of ‘Who are you? Who . . . ?’ echoing behind her.

  Chapter Twenty

  After disposing of the nasty package containing the bloody paw in a rubbish bin behind the hotel, I walked to the station and took the first train to Leeds. In my notebook I wrote a series of points, listing them all under the letter ‘M’, for murder. I clutched my handbag closer to me. Inside was the leather pouch containing the vials of poison which I had taken from under the floor at Styles. I started to make a list of the deadly substances in my possession.

  I had always been fond of belladonna. What a wonderful name, or rather, names: deadly nightshade, death cherries or devil’s berries. I had always thought it interesting that, like many poisons, in addition to its sinister purposes – it was thought that the Emperor Augustus had used it to kill unsuspecting enemies – it could be used for the benefit of mankind. Women had dropped it into their eyes to make them look more seductive, while it had also been used as an anaesthetic during surgery.

  The little chocolate-coloured Calabar bean was such an innocent-looking thing; it didn’t taste, smell or look particularly deadly but if ingested it would result in excess salivation, loss of bowel and bladder and respiratory control, and finally death by asphyxiation. Interestingly, the two poisons, atropine in belladonna and physostigmine in the Calabar bean, had, if administered correctly, the ability to cancel each other out, but one had to be extremely careful of the quantities involved, as I had learnt from Sir Thomas Fraser’s very useful paper on the subject. Atropine could save a life if three and a half times the fatal dose of physostigmine had been taken, but would actually quicken a death if four or more times the fatal dose had been ingested.

  But how could I think such a thing? Neither of them would have the desired effect. What I needed was a poison that would mimic death itself. I ran through the list of fatal toxins and their particular qualities. I realised that there was only one that would serve the purpose: tetrodotoxin.

  I had first heard about its use from a strange little man in South Africa. One night, on our grand tour in 1922, Belcher – the official leader of our group – had been boasting at dinner about my interest in poisons. At the time, I had found it most annoying that he made me out to be some kind of ghoul. I had tried to change the subject, but there had been one guest, the normally very dull Mr Bowes, whose eyes had suddenly come alive at the mention of the topic. At the end of the dinner, he had shuffled over to me and told me about his interest in chemistry, particularly the branch that concentrated on substances that could kill. By a roundabout fashion he had offered to introduce me to a man, Boreng, professor of biology at the local university who collected snake toxins and other poisons from the natural world.

  And so it was that one morning I had found myself being treated to a tour of the man’s laboratory. Of course, I found the visit absolutely fascinating: shelf after shelf was lined with bottles and vials of colourless liquids, as innocent looking as water. But I knew that the room contained enough poison to kill each and every inhabitant of an average town. Boreng, a small man whose face was lined with a series of curious scars, obviously liked my enthusiasm and knowledge of the subject because at the end of the tour he asked for me to stay behind, opened up a drawer with a gold key and produced a small vial.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘This is one of the most deadly substances you will ever come across,’ he said. He lingered over the letter ‘S’, pronouncing it as if he were something of a snake himself.

  ‘Is it from a serpent?’

  Boreng shook his head. ‘Have you heard of the Lazarus poison?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe I have.’

  ‘A toxin that induces a state of death, from which, if you are skilful enough, you can bring a person back to life?’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s surely not possible.’

  ‘You may believe that. But I have seen it done with my own eyes. The poison comes from the puffer fish. I’ve seen the same effect in a number of other species, certain toads, angelfish, sea stars, even a blue-ringed octopus. But this is the most lethal, the most deadly, the most effective. A colleague gave me a quantity of it after he returned from Haiti. Depending on the dose it can bring about a true death or it can lull someone into a death-like state. It’s my gift to you in case you need it. In case you need to rise from the dead one day.’

  What an odd thing to say, I thought to myself at the time. But nonetheless I thanked him, accepted the vial, and added it to my growing collection. Since then I had read up on tetrodotoxin and had learnt all about its history, its mention in the log of Captain James Cook, and its isolation by a Japanese scientist in 1909.

  As with all poisons, the secret was in the dosage. My plan was to administer just the right amount of poison to reduce Flora’s pulse to a level where it seemed nonexistent. I would call a doctor, get him to witness the death and inform him of Flora’s next of kin. The doctor would then send a telegram to Kurs and he would be satisfied that I had completed the task. I knew what would have to happen after that, but I hardly dared admit it to myself.

  The question was, would I be able to bring Flora back from the dead? What if I couldn’t? What if Flora actually died and I was found guilty of murder? How would Rosalind cope knowing that her mother had gone to the gallows for committing the most heinous of crimes? I knew that, in the eyes of God, any act of evil was wrong, but if I committed murder to prevent another murder would I then be judged as harshly? I had done so much thinking; now I had to act.

  At Leeds railway station I stepped into the Ladies’ room. As I examined myself in the glass I looked the image of a respectable middle-aged lady. Wearing the brown canton crepe dress, red bolero blouse and smart oatmeal coat that I had bought in Harrogate, I did not look like a person who was about to commit a crime. But criminals – murderers – came in many guises.

  Following Kurs’s instructions, I took a taxi from the station to Calverley Lane, a leafy suburb to the west of the city. I paid the driver and took a moment to observe the house, a huge Victorian affair set in its own grounds. It was a dark oppressive day: grey clouds sat low in the sky, there was only a mere sugge
stion of muted sunlight and, even at midday, a light burnt in the room at the front of the house. I walked up the stone steps and rang the bell. I told the maid that I was an acquaintance of Dr Kurs, who had sent me to see his wife with an important message. The half-lie worked and I found myself being led down a tiled hallway to a sitting room. Inside there was a pale-skinned auburn-haired woman who was lying on a chaise longue by the fire. She looked frail and her frame reminded me of a sick bird that I had once tried to rescue when I was a girl. If memory served me right I don’t think that I had been successful.

  ‘I’m so sorry I cannot get up, please forgive me,’ said the woman. ‘I’m feeling a little tired today. Sorry, I didn’t hear your name.’

  Would Flora recognise me from some of the photographs that had appeared in the newspapers? The images that had been reproduced in the press did not look anything like me; even I had to admit that in real life I was much more attractive.

  ‘I’m Mrs Price-Ridley,’ I replied. I didn’t know where the name came from, but it seemed appropriate somehow.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Flora, smiling. ‘Please, do come over and sit by me. It’s dreadfully chilly outside, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as I sat in an armchair directly opposite the chaise longue.

  ‘And you have a message for me. From my husband?’ She said the last word almost as if she didn’t quite believe that she still had a husband.

  ‘Yes, yes, a message of sorts.’

  ‘Oh – how very rude of me. I haven’t offered you tea. Would you like tea?’

  ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’

  Flora picked up a small china bell that lay by her side and shook it a couple of times before the maid appeared at the door.

  ‘Curston, could we have tea? Thank you. Now where have you travelled from today?’

  ‘From Harrogate.’

  ‘One of my favourite places in the world,’ said Flora. ‘And what brought you to Harrogate, may I ask? Your health?’

  ‘In a roundabout sort of way.’

  ‘My, how mysterious you’re being. But don’t worry. We will have our tea and then you can tell me what’s worrying you. Because I can see that you are worried, my dear, and that will never do. They say it can take years off one’s life.’

  I smiled nervously as the girl entered the room with the tea tray.

  ‘Thank you, Curston.’ Flora waited for the maid to leave the room before she turned to me. ‘I do hope my husband hasn’t been a nuisance in any way, Mrs Price-Ridley. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him and he has changed a great deal.’

  I took hold of my handbag and placed it on my lap.

  ‘No, it’s just that he wanted me to deliver a message in person. He said he didn’t want to write in case the letter fell into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Indeed? The mystery deepens,’ she said as she poured the tea. ‘My husband, as I am sure you are aware, is a most peculiar character. He is very intelligent, I grant you that, perhaps too intelligent, but lately he’s been suffering from what I can only describe as, as—’

  I watched as Flora began to cry, quiet sobs that gently rocked her slim, wasted body. I was unlikely to get a more opportune moment. I felt my breath quicken and my heart begin to race. I opened my handbag and slowly removed the small vial.

  ‘I must apologise,’ said Flora, taking out her handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress. ‘I have been ill of late, an illness that I am afraid has been brought about, to a large extent, by my husband.’ She blinked and turned her focus once more to me. ‘Now, dear, to your message. I hope Patrick hasn’t been cruel to you like he has to me. I can’t see him, no, it would be too much for me. He says he wants a divorce, but I cannot allow it. Even though my mother and father have passed away I still feel it would be wrong, an insult to their memory. But listen to me going on like this. I’m sure you don’t want to know any of this nonsense. It’s my burden, a burden to be borne privately.’

  I hid the tiny vial in the grip of my fist.

  ‘Oh yes, the m-message,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have it there? In your handbag?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

  ‘You look very pale, my dear. Is there something wrong?’

  An image of myself standing on the very edge of a cliff flashed into my mind. I could not see over the edge of the precipice. All I knew was that down below lay an infinite darkness and if I were to step forwards I would fall into a terrible abyss.

  My grip tightened around the vial – I was in danger of crushing it in my hand – and I felt a bead of cold sweat trickle between my shoulder blades. In that instant Flora dropped her handkerchief on the floor and bent down to pick it up. Just then, at the very moment when I knew that I should reach across and drop the poison into the woman’s cup of tea, I froze. I could not go through with it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t do it,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Flora, looking up, slightly bewildered.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘What – you can’t deliver the message?’

  ‘No – this,’ I said, opening my fist to reveal the vial of poison.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Flora, her eyes widening.

  ‘Please, I understand if you want to call the police. It’s unspeakable what I considered doing. I think the police will have to be brought in.’

  ‘Now, let’s not be quite so hasty. I suspect that Patrick has something to do with this. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  As I nodded tears began to flow down my cheeks. All the horrors that I had had to endure over the course of the last few days found expression in my crying. Flora raised herself up and came to stand by me.

  ‘In your own time, tell me what that brute has asked you to do,’ she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘And don’t hold anything back for my sake.’

  ‘My daughter – he said that, that he would—’ I said. I could not continue.

  ‘The depths to which he will stoop have long since ceased to surprise me, Mrs Price-Ridley.’

  ‘But I’m – I’m not—’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘No, that’s not my name. My name is Mrs Christie. Mrs Agatha Christie.’

  Flora walked around the chair, sat down on the chaise longue facing me and studied my face.

  ‘The writer? Of course, I see it now. I knew there was something familiar about your face. How extraordinary. Well, you must tell me the whole story. Here, have your tea.’ She passed over a cup and then took up the other one, which she drank from in a self-consciously theatrical, overly enthusiastic gulp. ‘And look – I’m still alive. Just,’ she said, laughing.

  The gesture made me smile and I managed to swallow a sip or two of tea myself before I started to recount the story of the last few days.

  ‘But you see, I never actually intended to kill you. I just thought I could pass you off as dead and then a doctor would wire your husband who would then release me from this awful nightmare.’

  ‘And did you think you really would be able to pull it off?’ said Flora.

  ‘I don’t know. But you see I had no choice, no real choice at all. It was either this or my daughter would suffer in a way I found quite unimaginable.’

  ‘Yes, quite. But what will you do now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m still very much unsure of that, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘The whole thing is wretched, simply wretched.’

  ‘And the police are quite out of the question?’

  ‘Well, Dr Kurs – your husband – said that if I breathed a word of his plan to the authorities he would let this associate of his, some degenerate type—’

  ‘That would be Tanner. Alfred Tanner?’

  ‘He never mentioned a name to me. But he does exist then?’

  ‘I’m afraid he does. When I was feeling especially low and vulnerable Patrick would relate to me certain aspects of this man’s life. It was far from pleasant.’

  ‘And
he’s never gone to prison? Never been sentenced?’

  ‘I don’t know how he has managed to escape the attention of the authorities, but there you are.’

  ‘Well, the doctor said he would let this man carry out his evil wishes, do what he wanted with my daughter. And the things that he suggested, I simply could not—’

  ‘Yes, well, don’t dwell on that. Please. I am sure we can think of something.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, now, will you have another cup of tea? You know, Patrick used not to be like this,’ she said as she poured. ‘No. To begin with he was actually normal, nice even.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a dance.’

  ‘Oh, the same as me. That’s how I met Archie, my husband. Only I’m afraid our marriage has not been happy for some time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, it’s unlikely to survive, especially now. Archie wants a divorce, too.’

  ‘And you’ll give him one.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘If I come out of this alive, yes, I suppose I will. But it might be more convenient for him if I died.’

  ‘Now, don’t talk such nonsense.’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t, but this last week or so has been so dreadful, you can’t imagine.’

  ‘I’m sure I can. You forget that I am the one married to him.’

  ‘How do you stand it?’

  ‘Well, when he was living here in Leeds he was seemingly quite well-balanced. We had a normal life. Of course, Patrick has always been extremely ambitious. I am sure that is one of the reasons why he chose me. He knew my parents were wealthy and that one day I would come into a great deal of money.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But then when we moved down south and he started to mix with a different class of person he became even more fixated on what we did and did not have. He persuaded me to ask my father for a lump-sum of money so we could buy a bigger house in Guildford. Then that house was not big or luxurious enough and so he wanted more. I loved him then – or at least thought I did – and so I would try and do everything in my power to keep him happy. But then it all got much, much worse after the accident.’