by Ron Benrey
“Bitter?”
Flick filled her cup and sniffed the tea.
She glanced at Nigel. He was lifting his cup to his lips to take another sip. “No!” she screamed. “Don’t drink it! Your tea is poisoned!”
She slapped the cup out of his hand.
Eleven
Nigel lurched toward the sofa in Flick’s office and sank gratefully into the friendly leather cushions. The dose of syrup of ipecac he drank had worked as advertised. He had just spent five minutes in the bathroom—twenty seconds vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach and the rest of the time retching—all the while remembering vaguely that ipecac was no longer used routinely in Great Britain to expel swallowed poisons.
See what happens when you try to comfort a guilt-ridden American?
He lay down face-first on the sofa. The cool touch of old leather against his cheek felt refreshing. He could hear Flick talking on her telephone, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying because she spoke in urgent whispers. Her tone signaled that she was still worried, still a bit panicky.
He would not soon forget the fusion of dread and remorse on Flick’s face when she knocked the nasty-tasting cup of Assam tea out of his hands. Her cheeks had turned an odd shade of gray, and her voice quavered as she shouted, “Your tea is poisoned!”
Your tea is poisoned!
Four words that had set his mind racing. He thought with incredible clarity during the next several seconds. Ideas dropped into place. Scales fell away from his eyes.
Flick had been right after all. One of the trustees of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum was a poisoner.
Elspeth Hawker had been poisoned on purpose, while he had been poisoned by accident when he drank some of Flick’s private tea. The poison clearly had been meant for Flick. She was the intended next victim.
“I’ve had a brainstorm!” he had said. “This was supposed to happen to you not me.”
“I know that!” Flick made her response into a long, plaintive cry.
She had pulled him to his feet and dragged him to the elevator.
“Do you feel anything unusual?” She peered into his eyes from a distance of three inches. “Dizziness? Stomach pains? Changes in your heartbeat? Shortness of breath?”
“None of the above. I feel fine. Is that good or bad?”
Flick repeatedly punched the number 3 button with the heel of her hand. “Come on! Come on!”
The door had closed slowly. Nigel could hear the motor grinding far below as the old, slow hydraulic elevator lackadaisically lifted them to the top floor.
Once in her office, Flick had dashed to her credenza, nearly torn the lid off a tea canister, and poured the contents out on her desk with wild abandon. Nigel watched over her shoulder as she examined the broken tea leaves with a magnifying glass.
“Rats! Rats! Rats!” she bellowed. “How dim-witted can a person be? Why didn’t I spot the leaf fragments earlier?”
“What do you see?”
“Pieces of another kind of leaf mixed with the Assam tea leaves. Some chunks are light green; others are dark green.”
“That doesn’t sound like a barbiturate,” he said.
“It’s not,” she said, her voice temporarily under control. “Barbiturate is a white powder. This must be some sort of plant poison.”
“Are plant poisons dangerous?”
“Some of them are lethal.” The jumpy voice returned. “In small doses.”
“Ah.”
She lowered her magnifying glass and spun around in her swivel chair so she could look up at Nigel. “I’m not sure what to do next,” she said.
“Well, we could dial 999 and ask for the local poison control centre.”
“That’s the one thing we can’t do,” she wailed. “The poison control people will call the Kent police, who will assume that I fed you the poison.”
“Why would the police think that?”
“Because they have decided that I’m a loony American who will do anything to convince them I am right. If I fed a load of bunkum to an MI5 agent, why would I stop at poisoning you to make them take me seriously?”
“But that is not what happened. Someone else put green leaves in your tea.”
“You know that and I know that, but the cops will blame me. They don’t want to point fingers at the precious trustees. I’m the easy way out.”
“Flick—you are merely speculating. We have a good police force in Kent.”
“Right! Just like you have good cardiologists who ignore the obvious symptoms of barbiturate poisoning.”
“Now you are mixing apples and oranges.”
“My mind is made up. We can’t call the poison control centre.”
“Well, I for one would hate to see DI Pennyman cause you any additional distress. That being the case, perhaps you can start planning a suitable Church of England funeral for me. It needn’t be as elaborate as the one I arranged for Elspeth, but I would prefer more smells and bells.”
“That’s not funny, Nigel!” She sprang to her feet and pushed Nigel down into a visitor’s chair. “This is stupid. I know exactly what to do. What I need is in the Conservation Laboratory. Stay put.”
“Where would I go to in my present hopeless condition?”
Flick ran out of the room without answering Nigel. In quick succession, he heard two drawers opening and closing, three cupboard doors slamming, and Flick shouting, “Why can’t I find anything in this stupid laboratory when I really want it?” Several more rattles and thumps, then, “Oh, that’s right! I put it in the first-aid kit.”
She came rushing back and presented Nigel with a small bottle. “Hold your nose and drink the contents.”
He read the label. “Syrup of ipecac?”
“It will make you throw up. We might as well empty your stomach.”
“My stomach is empty. We didn’t have lunch, remember? In fact, all I’ve eaten since breakfast is a bit of scone and a few sips of tea, most of them nonpoisoned.”
“Drink the ipecac, Nigel.” She folded his hand around the bottle. “Do it for me, if not for you. I don’t want to force you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“That’s a poor choice of words to use with an Adams.”
Nigel wavered. Was ipecac called for in the present circumstances? He wasn’t sure. But how could one ignore Flick’s beseeching countenance? Or her threatening stance?
“Well, I suppose a swig or two won’t hurt,” he said.
“Good!” To Nigel’s surprise, she reached down and gave him a hug. “I have to make a phone call.”
She was still talking on her telephone when Nigel returned from the bathroom—his throat dry, a fetid taste in his mouth—and lay down on her sofa. He closed his eyes. Flick sounded anxious enough for both of them; he might as well try to relax. Maybe even take a little nap.
A gentle stirring alongside the sofa changed Nigel’s mind. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a small red snout that was alarmingly close to his own nose.
“What happened to your doggy grin?” Nigel managed to croak. “You look worried about me, too.” Cha-Cha leapt onto the sofa and curled into a reassuring furry ball at Nigel’s feet.
Flick abruptly spoke from across the room. “Good news, Nigel. We’re making definite progress.”
He raised his head. Her formerly fearful voice now surged with determination.
I don’t like the sound of that.
“I refuse to drink any more ipecac,” he said. “I would rather let those mysterious green leaves do me in.”
“You aren’t going to die.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“My friend Cory Unger assures me you won’t.” She smiled. “In fact, he wants to talk to you.”
“And Cory is—”
“A professor of toxicology at the University of Michigan who knows all about common plant poisons.”
Flick pressed a button on her telephone to switch on the speaker. She moved the phone c
lose to the edge of her desk.
“Nigel, say hello to Cory.”
“Hello, Cory.”
Cory’s voice responded, “How do you feel, Nigel?”
“A lot worse than before I drank the ipecac—a form of torture that has been abandoned in England.”
Cory laughed. “The trouble with plant poisons is that they can sneak up on you. Did you ever hear the story of the man who jumped off the Eiffel Tower? Halfway down he said, ‘So far so good.’ Some plant poisons are like that. You feel fine for a while—then blammo!” He added, “Emesis is still a recommended treatment here in the States.”
“Emesis?”
“Throwing up. Particularly for the kind of poison you ingested.”
Flick interrupted. “You guys talk. I’m going back to the laboratory to get something else for Nigel.”
“I can’t wait,” Nigel said under his breath as he maneuvered himself upright into a sitting position on the sofa. Then he spoke more loudly into the telephone, “Cory, what exactly did I drink?”
“From Flick’s description, I’m pretty sure that the tea she brewed was laced with Nerium oleander leaves. Brits call the plant ‘rose bay’; we call it ‘oleander’ on this side of the pond.”
“A tall shrub with long, slender leaves and pink or white flowers.”
“That’s the one. Oleander is an evergreen that’s quite common throughout Europe and the United States. Most owners don’t realize that every part of the plant is poisonous—leaves, twigs, seeds, sap, the works.”
“Poison as in sick or poison as in dead?”
“The latter. Oleander poisoning is a popular method of suicide in Sri Lanka.” His voice grew somber. “How much tea did you drink?”
“A couple of sips at the most. It tasted foul.”
“Oleandrin is very bitter,” Cory said. “That’s the primary cardiac glycoside that makes oleander deadly. A sufficient dose will cause cardiac arrhythmia and eventually death.”
“Thank you for sharing.”
To Nigel’s annoyance, Cory took the mild sarcasm as an invitation to continue his lecture. “Oleandrin is very powerful; a little goes a long way. Purportedly, the water in a vase used to hold a spray of oleander blooms will turn into a lethal solution. The most unusual oleandrin victims I’ve heard about were a group of campers who got sick when they used oleander twigs to hold hot dogs over an open fire.”
Nigel shook his head reproachfully, even though Cory couldn’t see his gesture. American boffins were just like British boffins. Give them a chance to talk about science and off they went, gleefully forgetting whom they were talking to. He was the one who swallowed the blasted stuff; he was the one who had been poisoned. “Very encouraging,” he said glumly. “How much longer do I have?”
“Don’t sweat it, Nigel. Although a single oleander leaf contains enough oleandrin to poison a child, it takes a lot more to kill a healthy adult like you.”
Nigel looked up as he heard Flick’s footsteps. She came into the room carrying a drinking glass filled with something black.
“Crikey!” he said. “Now you want me to drink motor oil.”
Flick handed the glass to Nigel. “This is activated charcoal mixed with water.”
Cory’s voice boomed out of the speaker, “Highly recommended, Nigel. Activated charcoal slurry is used routinely for gastrointestinal decontamination. It will sop up any poison still left in your system.”
Nigel gazed into the glass. He could say no, but Cory seemed to know what he was talking about. And Flick, hovering next to the sofa, looked as if she might pour the potion down his throat if he refused.
“Do I have to drink it now?” Nigel winced at his own whininess.
“Bottoms up,” Flick said. “Charcoal is odorless and tasteless.”
“And utterly unappetizing.” Nigel took a deep breath. “When I get my hands on the person who poisoned your tea…” He shut his eyes and glugged down the charcoal.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Flick asked hopefully.
“A tad like knocking back the contents of a well-used ashtray,” Nigel spoke to the telephone. “What happens now, Professor?”
“You lead a long and happy life,” Cory replied. “I doubt that you consumed enough oleandrin to do real harm, and the charcoal should take care of the little that made its way past your stomach.”
Nigel realized, with agreeable surprise, that the activated charcoal had promptly removed the miserable taste from his mouth. Moreover, it seemed hard at work settling his innards. He suddenly felt hungry. While Flick said her good-byes to Cory Unger, Nigel went to the candy dish she kept on her credenza and helped himself to a handful of gummy bears.
When she rang off, Nigel said, “I really do feel much better. Thank you for the charcoal—and even the ipecac.”
Flick sat down on the sofa and gave a grudging nod. Nigel noted that her expression had changed. Instead of anxious, she now looked sorrowful.
“Knees up, Mother Adams!” he said cheerfully. “I am perfectly okay. You heard the professor. No real damage done. Anyway, what happened is not your fault. You didn’t try to kill me. You shouldn’t blame yourself because we have a deranged, but considerate, poisoner loose in the museum.”
Flick glanced at him. “Considerate? In what way?”
“Sabotaging your private stash of tea was akin to poisoning Elspeth’s personal jam pot. As you observed yesterday, there was little chance that anyone else would sample the goods.” He allowed a flicker of amusement to cross his face. “Of course, even the most carefully planned nefarious schemes sometimes go awry.”
Flick heaved a sigh. “I think the poisoned tea may have been more of a warning rather than an actual attempt to kill me.”
“A warning? The poison was real, was it not?”
“Absolutely real—that’s what got me thinking. The ‘deranged poisoner,’ to use your apt description, knows that most poisons are bitter. And so, he—or she—used lingonberry preserves to camouflage the barbiturates that killed Elspeth. But the poisoner didn’t do anything to mask the taste of the oleandrin.”
Nigel pondered for a moment. “I take your point. Unsweetened tea makes a poor disguise for oleander leaves.”
She nodded. “Especially when drunk by a fairly experienced tea taster. I was bound to realize that the Assam was tainted the instant I tasted the brewed tea. What’s more, the bright green specks of leaf are easy to spot. I should have seen them when I scooped the dry tea out of the canister.”
“Then why do it? Why poison your tea?”
Flick hugged her arms around herself. “To frighten me, I think. To encourage me to leave the museum. It would simplify the poisoner’s life if I simply up and quit. Another body in the boardroom might raise suspicions.” She half-smiled.
“Not even the Kent police would ignore two related deaths so close together in time.”
Nigel pondered again. Flick was probably right. He, an inexperienced tea drinker, had eventually realized that something was amiss with the Assam. She would have diagnosed the added “flavor” instantly. And the notion of the poisoner trying to frighten Flick away made sense, too. It would probably seem an easy task to accomplish after the impromptu trustee meeting. A threat in the form of oleander leaves might well convince Flick that she was far out on a limb all by herself, that it was time to leave the museum.
“I say again,” he said, “you shouldn’t blame yourself. It’s time to shed your unhappy face.”
Flick looked away from Nigel. “There’s a chance that I might have prevented what happened to you if I had told the police—and the trustees—everything I know. I held back a piece of important information. Something that might have changed people’s minds. Something that might have sent the poisoner fleeing for places unknown.”
“I see.” Nigel looked away from Flick. Her admission had had the curious effect of making him wonder exactly the same thing. Had his decision to suppress the words Elspeth spoke in his office emboldened the
murderer? The time was ripe to share his uncertain knowledge with Flick.
I will. As soon as she shares her secret with me.
Flick sighed deeply again. “Most people at the museum thought of Elspeth Hawker as a dotty old lady—an eccentric dilettante who had fun pretending to be an expert on the Hawker antiquities. The other day, Dorothy McAndrews described Elspeth’s knowledge as a mile wide but only an inch deep.” Temper flared on Flick’s face. “That isn’t true. Elspeth had a better eye than the professional antiquers who often wander through our galleries. She discovered an ongoing campaign of theft at the museum.”
“You explained all that to the Kent police and to the trustees.”
She nodded. “But I chose not to tell them that Elspeth had thoroughly documented her discoveries—and her suspicions—in a notebook she carefully hid in the Hawker Suite.” Flick’s expression became rueful. “I found the notebook. I used it to identify nineteen antiquities in the Hawker collection that have been replaced by excellent forgeries.”
“Blimey!” Nigel said. Without thinking, he added, “An exceedingly clever thief, just like Elspeth thought.”
Flick began to say something, then hesitated. “Who told you that about Elspeth? It’s not something I ever said.”
“We were talking about the good woman’s notebook,” Nigel said quickly. “Where is it?”
Flick gestured toward her credenza. “Sitting in the bottom of my electric teakettle.”
Nigel laughed. “An excellent hiding place. Your tea has an amazing ability to defend itself.”
“That’s the second joke you’ve made today that isn’t funny, Nigel.”
“Actually, Flick, I find it quite funny.”
Flick removed Elspeth’s little black notebook from its protective plastic bag and handed it to Nigel.
“Elspeth wrote in a kind of code,” she said. “But it’s quite intuitive.”
Flick was sitting behind her desk, Nigel in the visitor’s chair alongside it. She practiced reading upside down while he skimmed the notebook’s pages and asked occasional questions.