Ruby screwed the letter up and threw it in the waste bin. Then, after a few moments, she bent and retrieved it, flattened it out on the table, and bit her lip. She could of course refuse to go and dump the stupid kid. But all he asked for was a friendly chat, and clearly, it meant a lot to him. The cinema? She’d end up paying of course, and for the food as well, but she didn’t care about that. At least he’d never asked to borrow anything from her, let alone ask for a gift. No harm, then – as long as the sleazy boring sex wasn’t mentioned.
She turned up and found Brad already standing on the street corner. He was looking sparkling clean, and she was quite happy to take the boy for a decent lunch. She hoped people would think he was her grandson.
The film was enjoyable, but the conversations became tedious. His idea of discussing future careers seemed both pointless and brainless to her. She had thought the boy clever, and now he seemed less so. The improvements were gradual.
“Well, you know, kids dream of being train drivers and things. I still sort of fancy driving a train. But I’m going to study science.”
“Good,” Ruby had said. “What sort? I mean, I’m no scientist so I can’t be explicit – but physics? Chemistry? Astronomy? Technology? Archaeology? Entomology? That would be yuk, I think. How about Geology? Something else?”
“Chemistry perhaps. I like mixing stuff. Experimenting. Certainly not astronomy. I don’t fancy being an astronaut. Look what happens to them in all the films.”
“I think the films are just fiction. You must know it isn’t like that.”
Brad had looked at her. “Well of course. But there’s no need to be picky. And if you want to be picky, then technology isn’t a science.”
“OK. Chemistry then. Do you want to be a pharmacist? That’s a chemist, isn’t it?”
He had changed the subject.
Having drunk rather too much, partially from boredom and partially because the full glasses kept appearing with Brad actually managing his fair share of paying, Ruby eventually stuttered about going home. “No need to come.” Her consonants were blurred. “I’ll get a taxi.” She thought she’d probably never manage to climb on the bus, and would then no doubt fall off. “You go on off to the train, dear. Have a nice trip home.”
With an eager smile, Brad handed her a carrier bag. “One box for you, and one box for your nice friend Sylvia. I’ve got end of term exams soon so I may not see you again for ages. And I wanted to give you something to remember me by. Best chocolates I could afford, so don’t go handing them around all your little old friends. But Sylvia sounds nice, so I wanted to give her some too.”
Both touched and boozily delighted, Ruby permitted the kiss goodbye, and even his tongue exploring her teeth, and waved down a taxi. She tottered into it as Brad held the door open for her, sank back, and asked for the Rochester Manor, closed her eyes, clutched her bag of chocolates, and wondered if she could get out of ever seeing the silly boy again.
Dinner over, the residents at the manor were enjoying their usual evening flop. Some watched the television news. Others were impatient for the news to end so they could watch their favourite Soap. Those who wanted something else and didn’t like Soaps, tottered up to their own flats and watched their own televisions or crawled into bed. Amy, who could no longer see clearly enough for the TV anyway unless she sat nose to screen, was cheerfully chatting to anyone who cared to listen.
Harry, pleased to be free of Daisy Curzon who had returned northwards, had gone to the Crooked Wager, meeting up with the newly married Tony who wanted to moan about his wife. Sylvia stayed at home, managed to find the best armchair, and settled down to doze. On the sofa opposite, Percival sat to one side, Betty on the other, and Amy squashed in the middle. Yvonne had just opened a bottle of wine when Ruby struggled from the cab, over-paid the driver, and entered the manor by holding herself upright with hands against both walls of the corridor. Lavender bustled out to see who had arrived, and helped Ruby into the larger Living room, letting her slip into one of the smaller armchairs near Sylvia.
Ruby said, “Ish it late? Hi everybods.” And closed her eyes.
Amy was saying, “Well, I’ve never been terribly religious, you know. I went to church when I was little, but not once I grew up.”
Betty said, “I find religion a great consolation. After all, I shall drop dead any day now. It’s nice to know I won’t be all alone.”
The bottle went pop and Yvonne started pouring. “Ruby? A little plonk?”
“Shsss,” Ruby waved a vague index finger. ‘Naughty. No more. Goshsss. Feel all shwilling already.”
“I always think,” said Yvonne, “if you’ve had a little too much, then have a glass of water and something to eat. Absorbs the alcohol.”
“Good idea,” said Ruby and fished around in the carrier bag Brad had given her. She unearthed a box of chocolates and handed it to Sylvia, then took the other box for herself. She did not manage to open the cellophane, but Yvonne leaned over and opened it for her. Ruby popped two large smart looking chocolates into her mouth and handed the box to Yvonne.
“Not with wine,’ Yvonne said. “Each spoils the taste of the other.”
Ruby ate two more and waved the box in the air. Betty took one and sucked slowly. The others shook their heads. “Shuckssh,” said Ruby, and ate two more. “Ever sho nice.”
“I never really believed those sermons in church,” said Yvonne, sitting on the arm of Sylvia’s chair. “I can’t imagine any creator clever enough to invent the whole universe, being daft enough to invent us.”
Amy giggled. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m a believer or not. I suppose I am. After all, I was castrated as a baby at the local Methodist Church.”
Percival blinked open one eye. “Christened, my dear. Not castrated.”
“Ah, yes,” conceded Amy. “And I didn’t like the preacher.”
The vague misunderstandings spared infectious. “I believe the world is symbolic,” Sylvia said vaguely to herself. “We are some sort of physical symbol of the more important mental.”
“Spiritual,” said Percival.
“Doesn’t that combine with thought and emotion? Ah well.” Sylvia gave up, “symbolic of something.”
Ruby was a bit lost. She ate a couple more chocolates. “Sylivikins,” she said with the chocolates open on her lap. “Eat up.”
“Bless you dearest,’ Sylvia mumbled, “but I just don’t like milk chocolate, only the dark stuff. I’ll give these to Harry when he comes home. But it was darling of you, thanks so much.” She frowned. “You look a little the worse for wear, my dear. Can I help you up to bed?”
Ruby’s head dropped almost to her chest, and she began to snore. Sylvia beckoned to a couple of the younger of the male residents and called for Lavender. “I’ll get Arthur,” said Lavender at once. “He can carry her up to bed, poor dear.”
“I’ve known her to drink a little too much before,’ Sylvia mumbled to herself, “but never this much. She seems completely sozzled. And she went out by herself at lunchtime saying she was going to the Plaza. They don’t serve liquor at the cinema, do they?”
Ruby’s lavishly made bed, silken in crimson sheets and a quilt of red and black patterned velvet, awaited her and Arthur plonked her down on the pillows, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and trotted off again. Sylvia had followed, and Lavender behind. They now both loosened Ruby’s clothes, took off her shoes, unbuttoned the somewhat wintery cardigan, pulled a sheet and the quilt over her, and tiptoed out. Lavender said, “She’ll sleep tight now. But she’ll wake with a headache. I’ll leave a glass of water on the bedside.”
“I wonder if we should leave a bowl on the floor too,” said Sylvia.
“She wasn’t that bad, was she?’ asked Lavender. “She might be a little offended if she saw something like that when she wakes in the morning.”
Sylvia shook her head but closed Ruby’s bedroom door, and trotted back downstairs. “We’ll have to install a lift one day,” she said.
/> “Exercise is important when you get older,’ said Lavender. “But if everyone who lives on the upper floor wants to donate something, I daresay we could put in one of those stair lifts. But they’re horribly slow.”
“But in a zoom,” said Sylvia, “or a drone you can hang onto.” But she was interrupted. From upstairs echoed a crash, a faint shriek, and the sounds of someone being violently ill.
“Perhaps you were right,” said Lavender, turning and running back to the first floor and to Ruby’s door.
Sylvia and Lavender, pushing past each other, slung open the door and stared down at the bedroom floor. Ruby had collapsed there, but was lying face down in her own vomit. Sylvia lifted her face to the side, encouraging breathing. Yet Ruby barely breathed, and the vomit was copious and smelled both strange and vile. The stench of sweet alcohol was strong, but another drift of slime stank of something quite different. Lavender, already on her phone, was calling an urgent ambulance, while Sylvia bent, risking puke, to see if Ruby was conscious, and to discover how to help.
“Best not touch,” said Lavender.
“I had to. She was drowning in her own muck. I’m not even sure if she’s alive. I need something to clean out her nostrils. And what about CPR?”
“Oh dear.” Lavender took a step back. “Not the kiss of life?”
Sylvia had pulled a wet flannel from the bathroom and proceeded to wash Ruby’s face. She cleaned both nostrils and mouth, eventually sticking a finger down Ruby’s throat and clearing the pile of muck from where it had collected. With a huge gulp of air, Ruby breathed. But her eyes rolled upwards and closed once more, and her breathing, although returning, was shallow.
“Shit, piss, fuck,” Sylvia muttered in a desperate mumble. “Come on, darling. It’s only some sticky Tia Maria or something.”
They heard the ambulance siren and breathed deeper themselves.
Ruby, after a brief effort at pumping her heart by the paramedics, was put hurriedly on the stretcher, carried downstairs and into the ambulance. It sped off with a renewal of siren-urgency.
“Yes,” sighed Sylvia, collapsing onto the chair in the corridor, “we need a lift.” It was almost immediate that the front door opened again, letting in a blast of chilly wind, but although Harry had arrived home, Sylvia couldn’t rush into his arms. Virtually every resident from the living rooms had hurried out to see what had happened, who had dropped dead, and what they should all do about it. The voices crowded upon each other and no one could hear anything. Finally, Harry managed to squirm through.
“Good lord,” he said. “Sylvia my darling are you sick? You smell – well, I’m sorry, but you smell terrible.”
“It’s Ruby again,” said Sylvia in a daze, and burst into tears.
Johnny Tavistock, already bored, left the heart of Cheltenham and wandered down some of the back lanes. The light was dimming, and a late sunset was clipping the horizon over the distant hills. Twilight had turned every tree into a rich black silhouette, and in contrast, the sky behind appeared pure. An everlasting blue. But it did not last forever, and not even for the next half hour. The silhouetted trees dimmed into dusky obscurity. Sky blue swirled like a silken petticoat into rising pinks, lilacs and golds. It was a sky of treasure and proud display.
Yet within only moments this too faded. The vivid colours turned sweetly hesitant, and finally sank behind the hills. The darkness, grabbing the final permission, heralded night. The trees disappeared. The hills disappeared. The lanes, the hedgerows and even the ditches disappeared. But in their place, the stars sparkled out like a thousand minuscule drops of sunshine.
With little interest and little hope, Johnny turned and made his way back towards the train station. But he was still a long way off when someone passed him with a swish of coat and a tap-tap of high heeled shoes. He watched as she passed. Then, turning once more, Johnny followed and then overtook her. She was young and very pretty.
“Sorry, love. You got a light?”
He held up a cigarette. The girl fumbled in her coat pockets, found something and held it out. A red throwaway lighter. Johnny took it and lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter back. “Cheers, I bin longing fer that fer ages. No shops open now. Bin gasping fer a fag.” He turned away then quickly turned back. “You want one?”
Smiling, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. That would be nice. I’ve only got one left.”
“I got a packet, but I lost me lighter.” He handed her a cigarette. She took one, and with her own lighter, he lit it for her. “Can I ask yer name?”
“I’m nearly home, so don’t try asking me out now,’ she said. “But my name’s Lara. What’s yours?”
“Johnny,” said Johnny. “And I know wot you means about nearly home. I ain’t gonna push me luck. But we could have just a little walk down the road. No more, fair enough. But a couple o’ minutes to share news won’t hurt. See whether we fancies making a date fer tomorrow.”
“Just for a few minutes,’ said Lara. “My da’s waiting for me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Three telephone calls followed each other, and Sylvia leapt up each time, grabbing her phone from the coffee table in front of her.
Firstly Daisy Curzon sounded bubblingly cheerful. “Dean’s home. I thought you’d like to know,” she said. “My baby boy’s home again and looking ever so much better than before. We’ll never forget poor George, but like Dean says, he’ll live on in our hearts. No more crying.” Her voice sank again. “I do apologise, Mrs Joyce, for being such a nuisance over the past weeks, but you seemed to be the one person I could talk to. You understood me so well. You helped. And after all, it was you and your husband who solved those shocking crimes when they started.”
“I’m so glad Dean is back home with you, Mrs Curzon. I hope it’s the start of a better time.”
The second in line was Morrison. “I thought I’d better tell you and Harry first, before you see it in the papers,” he told her. “Yes, it’s happened again. No details yet, but it’s Cheltenham this time. A very nasty business. So I’m going to be busy for the next few days or longer. We’ll have to forget coming over for dinner tomorrow night, I’m afraid.”
“We understand. God – I hope you find the bastard this time. Not slowed down by bullet holes, I gather?”
“Not in the least, far as we can see.”
And thirdly the hospital phoned, which was the call she’d been waiting for and which she had both wanted the most and feared the most.
“Mrs Joyce? Mrs Ruby Pope is in a bad way, I’m afraid. She’s asking for you. You can spend as much time as you wish together, but hopefully we’ll get to talk too. I’m Doctor Verdie, and I need to discuss something with you. No, no, don’t get worried, Mrs Pope isn’t on death’s door, but she came very near it until we pumped out her stomach. So hopefully I’ll see you soon, Mrs Joyce.”
“Almost immediately,” said Sylvia, hung up and called Harry.
They went briefly to Ruby’s bedside and gazed in disappointment at the pale figure lying motionless on her back, white sheeting to her chin. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to hear nothing. Harry suggested Sylvia stay there while he spoke to the doctor, but she wanted to know exactly what the medical diagnosis promised.
Doctor Verdie crossed his hands over his chest and smiled, banishing all thoughts of death and coma. His words weren’t quite so reassuring. “I have to tell you, he said, “Mrs Pope came very close to death. But we caught the problem in time, and cleared the poison.”
“Poison?” Hiccup. “You mean the virus? Or bacterial? Dysentery?”
He shook his head. “This lady was poisoned,’ he said, “and the police have been informed. The problem might not have been caught or even understood, had I not recently had another similar case. Most serious, I’m afraid. And I understand from her notes that Mrs Pope recently attempted suicide? Might she have taken poison intentionally, do you think?”
“I’m positive she didn’t.” Sylvia, astonished, leaned f
orwards as if to emphasise her point. “Ruby was depressed and lonely, and afterwards deeply regretted the whole idea. She’d never do that again. She’s been perfectly happy. But last night she came home quite intoxicated. So could it be alcohol poisoning?”
“Actually, no.” The doctor smiled across at Harry. “This is something quite different, and almost positively intentionally administered.”
Harry said, “Well, not suicide. For one thing, she’d have been too pissed to mix anything or decide to take anything.”
“She ate about thirty chocolates she’d got from somewhere,” Sylvia added.
This seemed to interest the doctor, and he drummed his fingertips on his desk. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she often eat chocolate.”
“Oh yes. But this was a brand I’d never seen her buy before. Special, I expect. Not homemade.”
“Well boxed? In a commercial wrapping? What name?”
Sylvia couldn’t remember. “She ate most of them, but I think one or two others had one too. We had to clear up after her, so the box and the wrapping all got thrown away.”
Doctor Verdie seemed almost excited. “Can the box be rescued? And who else ate one? Has anyone else been sick?”
“I don’t think so, and I don’t think so,” said Sylvia. “All I’ve been waiting for is the call from you. But I have another box since Ruby gave me an identical one last night but I didn’t bother opening it. I was too worried about her.”
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