A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  I was procrastinating, trying to find reasons to stop myself from going ahead with the plan. As I approached the house in Leeds I felt like turning away and taking the train back to Harrogate, but I willed myself on. After all, Kurs could be watching me, or having one of his lackeys follow my every move. I stopped outside the door and forced myself to ring the bell. Flora herself answered the door.

  ‘I’ve given the maid and the cook the rest of the week off as you suggested,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

  As I stepped into the large, comfortable hallway I noticed that Flora seemed possessed of a new energy. Her eyes sparkled and she talked with an increased vitality. If I did not know otherwise I would have guessed, just by the bloom on her cheek and the carefree way in which she moved, that she had recently fallen in love. But I suspected that Flora’s secret lover was none other than death itself.

  ‘I can’t wait to get started; I’ve managed to get the things you asked for. I’ve got salt to make a saline solution; I got that from my local chemist. He didn’t ask a single question, not one. I’ve also got the various pieces of equipment that you said we would need, the length of tubing and a funnel, and of course we already had a bucket. It really was very straightforward. No trouble at all.’

  I suddenly felt terribly depressed; the enthusiasm with which Flora greeted the experiment made me doubt the nature of the whole procedure.

  ‘Flora, listen,’ I said. ‘I think we need to talk about a couple of things before – if – we start.’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand – “if we start”. Has anything changed? Has Patrick been in touch? What’s happened?’

  ‘Just take a deep breath and calm down for a moment.’

  I took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room. Flora had got everything ready: there was a fire blazing at the far end of the room and, on one of the tables, she had arranged all the necessary equipment, a pile of starched white towels, a funnel, a bucket, a length of brown tubing and a bottle of ink, some sheets of white letter-writing paper, and a fountain pen.

  ‘But everything is ready, can’t you see? It’s all been prepared. I am ready.’

  ‘That’s just what concerns me.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Flora, I’m worried that you’re rushing into this for all the wrong reasons. I know you want to help me, to help save my daughter, and I am eternally grateful for that. But I am distressed by your over-enthusiastic manner. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought you were using this to, well, to hasten your own death. I would feel like I would be helping you to commit a sin.’

  ‘I see,’ said Flora, taking a deep breath and clasping my cold hands. She looked me directly in the eyes. ‘I can promise you that I have every intention of waking up and greeting you as if it were the beginning of a new day. There are things I need to live for, mark my words, things I need to do before I die. I swear on my mother and father’s graves, and you know how much I still value their memory, how much they mean to me.’

  I believed her; it was impossible not to. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I want to ask you one last time if you are ready to do this. I won’t mind in the slightest if you feel you can’t go through with it for whatever reason.’

  ‘Mrs Christie, Agatha. I trust you implicitly, you know that.’

  ‘You do realise, as I said before, that there will be certain side effects of the drug, side effects that are likely to be most unpleasant.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that and I am ready. But I wholly expect that, after all this is over, to be sitting up in bed and asking you to make me a nice cup of tea.’

  I studied Flora’s face; she looked much calmer now and more relaxed and the frenzied mania had disappeared from her eyes.

  ‘And the doctor?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, like you said, I’ve dug up the most incompetent one I could find. A Dr Maxwell. His hands shake – a drink problem, I think. Here are his details.’

  After reading the letter I took a couple of deep breaths and then reached into my handbag for the vial of tetrodotoxin. As I did so I was reminded again of that chemist I had known who had told me about carrying around a lump of curare. I had never wanted to find myself in a position where I could decide whether someone should live or die, but then I thought of dear Rosalind. I looked at my watch. It was already half past ten.

  ‘Let’s start the preparation,’ I said. ‘If I carry the tray with the tubing and the funnel would you mind bringing the bucket up to your bedroom? I think that would be the most appropriate place, don’t you?’

  Flora led me through the house and up the stairs to her bedroom on the first floor. The room was large and comfortable and overlooked the garden at the back of the house, a garden dominated by a large fir tree.

  ‘When I was a girl my father had a swing attached to one of the larger branches of that tree,’ said Flora. ‘I used to adore it, swinging back and forth, the feeling of air on my face, a sense of weightlessness. That’s how I like to think of it – death, I mean. A sense of liberation, freedom.’

  I cast her a concerned look.

  ‘But I’m not thinking about that today, I promise.’

  ‘No, I hope not. I’ve told you a little about the drug that I am going to use, but you must remember that you will be completely conscious throughout.’

  ‘So I will be aware of everything going on around me?’

  ‘Yes, you will be paralysed, of course, and suffer a range of unpleasant side effects, but you will remain quite, quite lucid.’

  As Flora sat on the edge of the bed and started to draft her suicide note I ran through the procedure once more, for my benefit as much as hers. As I talked I realised that I had started to detach myself slightly from the task in hand, rather like I had been forced to in my days as a VAD during the war. How little I had known when I had first turned up at the hospital, the old Town Hall in Torquay.

  I remembered that drum of dirty dressings and bandages. My first instinct had been to burn the lot of them, but then the sister had told me that once the strips of fabric had been sterilised they could be used again. I recalled the four urns that were located at the end of the ward, pots that contained boiling water from which the nurses made the fomentations. The cry of the sister who continually derided the less able girls as ‘only fit to go and see if the crock is boiling’ echoed in my ears. I had always feared that one day I would be that very girl. And then there was the time when I had first witnessed an operation. The sight of the flayed flesh, the rancid smell of the open wound, the nasty red smile of the incision had been too much and I had nearly fainted; if it had not been for the swift action of a kind nurse I would have collapsed in theatre and disgraced myself entirely.

  I had learnt quickly – I had been forced to – and I found that I had enjoyed the work. Perhaps it was something in my nature; I remember my mother telling me that one of my great-grandmothers had once been a hospital nurse. I realised very early on that I could not allow myself to be emotional; if I went to pieces then I would not be doing the men any favours. Even if my soul was crying out in pain I knew I could not show it; after a while I trained myself to be logical, even a little bit steely. That was what was called for today.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t need to use this, but just in case you do,’ said Flora, handing me the letter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Do you want to change into your night clothes? I think it would be for the best.’

  I turned my head as Flora began to undress, but from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the woman’s shoulder, her smooth alabaster skin, her attractive figure. No one would ever know that her time was limited. How dreadful, what a terrible waste. When Flora had changed into her white lacework nightgown I watched her as she splashed her face with cold water, brushed her hair and climbed into bed.

  ‘If you could make yourself as comfortable as possible. There, that’s right. Shall I help you with the pillow?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Fl
ora, shifting position slightly and loosening the collar of her nightgown.

  I returned to the dressing table where I prepared the solution of tetrodotoxin. A little over 25 milligrams of the toxin taken orally was enough to kill a person; a seemingly insignificant drop would prove fatal. I knew that I would have to be able to interpret Flora’s symptoms and be ready to act as soon as I thought the woman was in danger. Timing was everything.

  I looked at my watch once more – it was now eleven o’clock exactly. I measured out the poison carefully, checked the dosage and checked it again, before I added the water.

  ‘It may taste strange,’ I said. ‘Now before I pass it to you, are you sure you want to go through with this? There’s still time to change your mind.’

  ‘No, I’ve decided. I’m ready.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘As I said, you may feel a number of very odd sensations, but try not to panic. I assure you I have everything under control.’

  This last statement was not entirely true, but again it was the kind of thing I used to have to say to the wounded and butchered men I had seen during the war. The words acted as a comfort not only to the patient but to the nurse too.

  Twenty minutes after I had administered the drug I started to notice the first symptoms. Flora’s fingers rose up to her face as a quantity of saliva formed at the corners of her mouth. Beads of perspiration erupted all over her skin and her breathing had started to quicken.

  ‘I know that although you can’t talk you can most probably hear me. Flora, I’m here, it’s Agatha. You might start to feel wretched – stomach cramps, nausea, headaches.’

  Flora was about to endure a torture that I would not wish on my worst enemy, perhaps not even Kurs himself. And the process had only just begun: the stomach cramps would continue, her skin might take on a bluish tinge, her blood pressure would plunge to dangerously low levels, and she could suffer from seizures, excess sputum production, and respiratory distress. I monitored the woman’s pulse and her breathing throughout the procedure, quick to pick up on any change.

  ‘I know you can hear me, Flora,’ I said as I wiped her brow. ‘I’m not going to let you die.’ I repeated the words softly.

  As I sat by her, Flora’s pulse slowed until it dropped to a level where it seemed non-existent. From my handbag I took out a little compact and placed it over her mouth: the mirror remained unchanged, a sign that would show that she was dead. It was time to call the doctor. I checked Flora once more before I left the room and walked down the stairs to telephone Dr Maxwell. A woman answered who told me that the doctor was with a patient, but would call at the house when he had finished. I gave the address and name of Flora Kurs, and told her that my friend seemed to have fainted. I returned to Flora’s bedroom and sat by the bed, watching as the poor woman’s body twitched and flapped on the bed like a dying fish on a sun-baked beach. By the time the doctor arrived, the spasms should have stopped and her body would look like that of a corpse.

  I looked at my watch. It was now nearly twelve. I left her for a moment and went to the window at the front of the house to see if the doctor had arrived, but there was no sign. From my sleeve I took out a handkerchief and began to twist it over and over again in an effort to relieve the anxiety. I returned to Flora’s bedroom to find her body still and lifeless. I knew that the next step in the inevitable progress of the drug was bronchospasm, followed by respiratory failure, coma and then death. I felt Flora’s pulse once more. Still nothing. There was not much time left. Where was the fool of a doctor?

  Just then there was a knock at the door. I checked the bedroom one last time for anything suspicious – I had safely hidden the tubing, the funnel, the bucket, and of course the vial of poison – and then quickly ran down the stairs. I opened the door to see a man in his sixties with thinning brown hair, reddened face and nose and dark shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Hello – Dr Maxwell, I am here to see Mrs Kurs. Sorry I’m a little—’

  ‘You must come at once. I think Mrs Kurs is – I think it may be too late.’

  ‘What on earth—’

  ‘Please, just hurry.’

  ‘I was told that this was about a woman who had fainted.’

  ‘Yes, she did, but then, oh I don’t know. Please help.’

  I rushed the doctor through the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. On seeing Flora’s inert form lying on the bed Maxwell ran over and immediately took her pulse. With each passing moment the expression on Maxwell’s face became graver and graver. Then, from his bag, the doctor took out his stethoscope and listened to the woman’s chest.

  ‘I’m afraid there is no hope,’ he said finally. ‘No, I’m sorry to tell you that she’s gone.’

  ‘Oh no, how awful!’ I cried. The tears that began to flow down my cheeks were genuine, but their source was not the grief of Flora’s passing. The tears were for myself, for what I might yet do.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened? You say she fainted?’

  ‘Yes, we were talking. She was in bed, as she is now. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and when I returned she had slumped forwards in bed. I looked for some smelling salts, but I couldn’t find any. That’s when I called you.’

  ‘And had Mrs Kurs been ill?’

  ‘Yes, she had. She wrote me a strange letter asking me to visit. I took the train this morning and I let myself in – she had arranged to send me a key, you see. When I arrived I realised that the servants were not here, I presume she must have dismissed them for the day, and I found Flora sitting up in bed. We talked for a while. I said she looked a little pale, and then thought a cup of sweet tea might help. And when I came back up from the kitchen she – she—’

  ‘I see,’ said Maxwell. ‘And do you know anything about the nature of her illness?’

  ‘No, but from the letter I got the impression that it was not good news. Of course, as soon as I received the letter I came at once.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maxwell. ‘And why didn’t you contact her usual doctor, may I ask?’

  ‘I’m afraid I had no clue who that was. I rang the first doctor I found in the directory, you see.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see. Well, of course I am going to have to telephone the police.’

  I had prepared myself for this. ‘Yes, yes, you must. I think the sooner they come the better.’

  ‘Indeed. And do you happen to know who her next of kin is? They will need to be contacted.’

  ‘Yes, her husband, a doctor also. Dr Patrick Kurs, of Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire.’

  ‘Well, I will contact him and tell him the bad news, unless you would rather do that?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, wiping a tear away with a corner of my handkerchief. ‘I’m a very old friend of Flora’s, but I am afraid I never met her husband. You see for the last few years I’ve been out of the country.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Maxwell. I thought he looked a little strained, as if he were suffering from a particularly bad case of the drinkers’ disease, gout. Then he raised his head and stared at me for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask, but you remind me of someone. Have we met somewhere before?’

  I felt weak-headed, as if I might faint. ‘No, I don’t believe we have.’

  ‘Do you live in Leeds?’

  ‘No, as I said, I’ve been living out of the country, in South Africa.’

  ‘Indeed? That’s a long way from Yorkshire.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’ve been there since my husband died in the war.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Perhaps I know a relative of yours, perhaps that is it, Mrs—’

  ‘I doubt it. I don’t have any family near here.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He stared into the distance, as if by doing so he hoped to reclaim a lost memory. ‘And what did you say your name was?’

  I knew that it would be unwise to give Maxwell the name I had been using at the Hydro. But what could I say? For a moment, my mind went blank.
Then a word came to me, a word from my childhood, quickly followed by an image of a pretty village at the foot of a range of mountains. I was a girl again, on holiday with my parents in France, in the Pyrenees. The whole family was out walking one day when the guide, a kindly man, gave me a present of a butterfly that he had caught. It had been such a pretty little thing – oh the colours on its wings! – but then he had taken a pin and spiked the beautiful creature to my hat. I had been so upset that I had not known what to say or what to do and so I had fallen mute.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’ Maxwell’s voice jolted me back to the present.

  ‘Cauterets,’ I finally said. ‘Mrs Jessica Cauterets.’

  Maxwell turned from me and began to walk out of the room. I felt such a great sense of relief that I could have collapsed in a heap on the floor. But then, as Maxwell approached the door, he stopped and addressed me once more.

  ‘I will need to contact Mrs Kurs’s usual doctor, of course. Perhaps he might be able to shed some light on the nature of her death. I don’t suppose you have the details or whether you might be able to find them for me?’

  ‘I will see if Flora left any record.’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs in the sitting room.’

  I listened at the door to make sure he had descended the staircase. I rushed across the room, opened my bag and brought out my compact; again the mirror remained clean. I ran my fingers across Flora’s cold forehead and held her hands, which were now beginning to turn blue.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Una wondered whether it was wise to go back and see Dr Kurs. She thought about what Davison had said, how he had warned her about placing herself in danger and she certainly wasn’t looking forward to the second dose of that tonic. But a doctor was a respectable member of the community. And he had told her that he could give her some background information relating to Mrs Christie and Nancy Neele. Of course, the doctor might not disclose anything of real importance, but, as she had learnt from reading Agatha Christie’s novels, sometimes the small details made all the difference. When she arrived at Kurs’s house in Rickmansworth she saw that two policemen were leaving.