A Slightly Bitter Taste

by Harry Carmichael

  “I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Quinn said.

  “That’s too bad. I’d be glad to put you in the picture … but I don’t want to occupy your telephone when you’re anxiously waiting for an important phone call … ha-ha.”

  Quinn said, “You’ve already occupied the telephone to no purpose.”

  “Not quite. I wasn’t sure my information was correct about Adele being put to sleep before half past three. Now you’ve confirmed it.”

  “So?”

  “So all I have to do is ask a couple of pertinent — or impertinent — questions and I’ll have enough proof to sink a ship.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “Oh, no. I’m going to teach you a lesson in good manners. Next time you won’t be so abrupt with a lady.”

  “Now you’re being silly,” Quinn said.

  “Not me.”

  She was laughing as her voice receded from the phone. “If you’d been more patient I’d have let you share my secret. So it’s the well-known Mr. Quinn of Fleet Street who’s silly …”

  He tried to break in but he was too late. The line went dead before he managed to say a word.

  At eleven o’clock he got tired of sitting alone in the big empty living-room and decided to go to bed. Carole had not yet returned. Michael Parry was still out posting his letters.

  As Quinn went upstairs he heard voices talking in Mrs. Ford’s bedroom. The house was very quiet and he caught an odd phrase now and again, a few words that made him tread cautiously as he approached their door. Then he heard the name Adele.

  A moment later, Neil Ford said, “Don’t raise your voice. Carole’s gone out but that fellow Quinn’s downstairs and he’s got ears like an elephant. That’s why I didn’t like the idea of him staying here over the week-end. In his job he just loves to rake up dirt.”

  “But there wasn’t anything wrong — really wrong — between you and her, was there?”

  “No, of course there wasn’t! How many times have you got to ask? I thought I’d explained the whole thing. Don’t you trust me? Don’t you know I wouldn’t let you down?”

  “Yes, dear, I do know. But it’s come as a shock all the same … especially after what I’ve been through since yesterday. I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “What else could I do? You knew she’d made one or two phone calls and I was afraid you might let it out accidentally. That’s all somebody like Quinn needs to hear. He’s an expert at making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  In a snuffling voice, Irene Ford said, “But I didn’t know she’d come to Ringwood several times and met you without me knowing. If only you’d told me —

  “It wasn’t several times … just two occasions. And there was nothing to tell. At first I thought she just wanted to confide in me, to ask my advice as to what she should do about Michael, but when I discovered what she was really after I put a damn’ quick stop to it. You don’t think I’d let a woman like her make a fool of me, do you?”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t ever believe you could do a thing like that … so you don’t need to reassure me. But I’m scared, Neil, terribly scared. What if they find out?”

  Ford said, “There’s nothing for them to find out — nothing at all. I keep telling you that.”

  “Yes, I know, dear. But supposing somebody saw you and her together —”

  “Nobody saw us. So long as we don’t say anything the whole business can be forgotten.”

  “But you can’t be sure. If they learn the kind of woman she was and then hear you’d been seen with her they might imagine —”

  “How can they? For God’s sake, how can they? Just tell me that.”

  “I don’t know,” Irene Ford said miserably. “I don’t know how they discover such things. I’ve just heard they sometimes can. And I’m afraid. You’ve no idea how afraid. If they should find out — and please don’t be cross with me, dear — what’ll they do?”

  “Nothing — absolutely nothing. I’ve told you that already. If someone poisoned Adele it wasn’t me. And that’s all the police are interested in.”

  “You’re not — worried?”

  “Not in the slightest … so long as we keep our mouths shut and you stop looking so damn’ silly. You’ll make people suspect we have something to hide if you don’t take a hold on yourself.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve never found it easy to pretend. And I’m upset, anyway. You might not care but I was fond of Adele. I know she had a thing about men … but she was like a sister to me. Now you’ve spoiled that by telling me she wanted you to … well, you know. If only you hadn’t —”

  There Irene began to weep. Neil Ford said, “If you’re going to start that again, I’ll leave you to get over it by yourself. One thing I can’t stand is when you turn on the waterworks.”

  Footsteps stamped towards the door. Quinn had just time to duck into the bathroom before Neil Ford came out, pulled the door shut with a bang, and hurried downstairs.

  Footsteps in the corridor roused Quinn as he was falling asleep — the clip-clop of a woman’s high heels followed by a man’s heavy tread. After a whispered “Good night …” they went into separate rooms.

  He knew the woman was Carole and the man had walked like Neil Ford. That left Parry still absent. And Quinn’s watch said the time was ten past twelve.

  Of course, he might have dozed off without knowing it. He hadn’t heard the sound of an engine … and yet Carole must have returned in the car. Possibly Michael Parry was already home in bed.

  Vagrant thoughts took on larger-than-life substance as sleep clouded Quinn’s mind again. He wondered how long Carole and Neil Ford had been talking together downstairs … and what they had talked about … and if the way Ford looked at Carole meant anything.

  He was far from being a man’s man but that didn’t mean to say he couldn’t be attractive to women. They had their own ideas of what they liked in the opposite sex.

  … Even intelligent women have been known to get soppy over types that the average man can spot a mile off. And Carole is no exception. I could have been wrong. There might be something between her and Ford. Maybe it wasn’t Bossard who broke up the marriage. Maybe she was the one who strayed off the straight and narrow while her husband was at sea. Maybe he only had an affaire with Adele Parry because he felt that what was sauce for the goose …

  Behind the old saying, Quinn caught a glimpse of another thought … leading to yet another … and another … like the mirror-image that loses definition as it shrinks into infinity.

  Then the cloud grew darker in his mind and the procession of thoughts were footprints in the sand at the water’s edge. He saw the tide flow in under the light of the moon to fill the footprints with molten silver … and when the sea rolled back it took the footprints and left the smooth expanse of beach untrodden again.

  One thing only remained before he fell asleep. Ariadne Wilkinson was saying “… l’ll have enough proof to sink a ship.”

  13

  He slept late next morning. It was nearly ten o’clock when he went downstairs.

  Irene Ford was in the living-room reading one of the Sunday papers. Her eyes looked tired.

  She asked him what he would like for breakfast and protested weakly when he said he’d get something for himself. As he went into the kitchen her anaemic voice was still complaining.

  “… Oh, you shouldn’t really. I think it’s a shame.”

  Then she said in a brighter tone, “Michael hasn’t come down yet. I think he must’ve got to bed very late. I didn’t hear him come in.”

  Quinn said, “Where’s your husband? Is he still in bed, too?”

  “Oh, no. He and Carole have gone out for a stroll. They said it was too nice a day to stay indoors … Are you sure I can’t get anything for you? I feel I shouldn’t be sitting here while you make your own breakfast. It doesn’t seem right for a man to do that sort of thing … if you know what I mean.”

  He
didn’t bother to tell her that coffee and toast presented no problem. In any case she wouldn’t have heard him above the rustling of the newspaper.

  While he was pouring out his coffee the phone rang. Irene Ford said, “I wonder who that can be? If it’s for Michael I suppose you’ll have to go upstairs and waken him. I never like to … well, you know what I mean.”

  Through the open door, Quinn saw her pick up the receiver. She said, “Yes? … Oh, yes, I’m a lot better now, thank you … well, he’s upset, naturally. You wouldn’t expect him to be anything else …”

  As she listened she gave a little wriggle and felt the neck of her dress. Quinn saw the suddenly altered look on her face.

  Then she said, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about and I don’t believe it, either … when? … No, it’s not true.”

  The voice on the phone made scratching distant noises. Irene said, “You shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not right to talk about her now she’s dead. Whatever she may have done, it’s nobody’s business —”

  There the phone whispered again. When it stopped, she said, “Please, Ariadne, we’ve had enough trouble already … you’re wrong … no one poisoned her. I’ve thought about it ever since Friday night and I’m sure she did it herself … no, it isn’t true.”

  She listened, her hand fumbling with the neck of her dress as though it were tight. Then she said, “I don’t know. But whatever reason he had I’m sure it was all quite proper … Michael wouldn’t do a thing like that … no … no, he’s still in bed.”

  Moments later, the nervous, frightened look on her face changed. In a voice that Quinn had never heard her use before, she said, “I don’t understand why you should want to make trouble. If you’d only let well alone … all right, if you insist … then I think you’re a horrible person. Michael’s never done you any harm and you’ve no reason —”

  Quinn heard the phone click. With her mouth open, Irene turned to look at him.

  “She’s hung up. I was in the middle of talking to her and she hung up. I’ve never met such a nasty woman in all my life — not really.”

  “What was it all about?”

  “Something I’d never have thought possible. She’s got the cheek to say Adele was a friend of hers and yet she comes out with the most filthy suggestions. Tells me Dr. Bossard was Adele’s lover and he used to come here often … and eventually Michael found out —”

  “— and killed her,” Quinn said.

  Irene Ford put down the receiver. With a wriggle of her bony shoulders, she said, “Yes. That’s what she says must’ve happened. Isn’t it outrageous? Wants me to believe she’s got proof, too.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “According to her, she saw Michael returning home quite a bit before half past three on Friday and so he’d have had time to drug Adele. Do you know what she means?”

  “Yes … but I don’t necessarily believe it. When you said ‘ … if you insist,’ what had she asked you to do?”

  “Wants me to tell Michael she’s coming here this afternoon with Dr. Bossard so as to bring the whole thing out into the open. Why she wants to do this to Michael, I just don’t know — not really. Perhaps it makes her feel important … or perhaps she was jealous of Adele all the time … if you know what I mean.”

  Quinn said, “Only too well. There’s no stopping a woman like Ariadne Wilkinson once she gets started.”

  Irene wriggled again. The old nebulous, fearful look was back in her eyes.

  “I wish I knew what to do. Even if Adele was carrying-on with Dr. Bossard it wasn’t his fault. He’s a bachelor and she was very beautiful … and I can see how he’d be tempted … especially if she wouldn’t leave him alone. Now it’ll all come out and he’ll be ruined because he’ll have to give evidence … won’t he?”

  “If Michael Parry is tried for the murder of his wife,” Quinn said.

  She touched the phone, drew her hand away, and shivered. “Are you going to tell Michael what she’s threatening to do?”

  “Why not? It’s only fair to warn him.”

  “Do you think” — she faltered and her eyes lifted reluctantly to Quinn’s face — “do you think he did it — really?”

  “I’m not a judge and jury,” Quinn said.

  He told himself she didn’t care a brass button for Michael Parry. The fear he could see in her eyes was for her husband.

  … Might be a good idea if Elvin checked up on Neil Ford’s whereabouts on Friday afternoon. Maybe he picked her up at Salisbury and brought her home. Maybe she’d finished with Bossard and had dug her claws into Ford, instead … and he wanted to be free because he’d got someone new. And that’s where I came in …

  Carole … She’d had the time and the opportunity. But not to protect her ex-husband. Ford was now the best bet. Either he’d done it himself … or Carole had done it for him. And if Ariadne Wilkinson could be persuaded to tell a lie in the cause of justice, the right one might be bluffed into an admission of guilt.

  Irene Ford said, “You’re hiding something from me … aren’t you?” In the sunlight from the long panoramic window she looked cold.

  “Only a passing thought,” Quinn said.

  “Won’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not worth the telling. Maybe I’ll explain later. Meantime, you go and do some sunbathing until Carole and your husband get back.”

  “What about you?”

  Quinn said, “I’m going to finish my breakfast. Then I’ll rouse Michael and give him the glad news that he can expect visitors this afternoon.”

  Dr. Bossard’s housekeeper took the call. She told Miss Wilkinson that the doctor was upstairs but she would go and fetch him if it were urgent. Miss Wilkinson said it was very urgent.

  The housekeeper was present when Dr. Bossard spoke on the telephone. She heard him say he would do his best to call on Miss Wilkinson at twelve-thirty, but he might be a little late as he had another visit to make. His housekeeper also heard him tell Miss Wilkinson to do nothing hasty until he got there.

  Ten yards short of the gate he backed off the road and reversed into a cart track overgrown with tufts of grass and weeds and straggling hedges. When he was as close to the nearside as possible, he got out and collected his medical bag from the front passenger seat and made sure he had a pad of prescription forms in his pocket.

  With the bag pulling at his arm he trudged along the narrow road to Rose Cottage. The wicket gate was unlatched. He pushed it open with his knee and walked heavily up the tiled path and through a rustic arch smothered in flowers which screened the front door from the sun.

  There was nothing to be heard inside the cottage. All around him lay the quiet of the countryside on a hot summer’s day interwoven with the grumbling drone of a bee, the chirping of crickets in a cornfield across Northwood Lane, the far-off barking of a dog up on the hillside. Overlaying the sounds that he knew so well he could hear a car engine idling at a fast speed somewhere behind the house.

  When he had tugged at the old-fashioned bell pull without result he rapped on the door. After he had waited another ten seconds he rapped again. Then he tried the knob.

  The door opened. He saw an empty hall, a table with a vase of red roses, a doorway through which sunlight spilled from a window at the back of the house.

  He took a step inside and called out, “Miss Wilkinson! Are you there. Miss Wilkinson?”

  The house was as silent as though it had been unoccupied for a long time. There was only the bubbling noise of a car exhaust, muffled and yet amplified behind closed doors.

  He looked in another room, found it also empty, and glanced at his watch. It was just after twelve-thirty. As he stood listening, all he could hear was the persistent murmur of a car.

  His bag was heavy and he realised he had no need to carry it from room to room. He placed it on a chair, massaged his fingers, and again called out, “Are you there, Miss Wilkinson?”

  His voice seemed to linger in the stillness. If
she had been anywhere in the cottage she would have been bound to hear him.

  He told himself he had spent enough time. With the noise of the car growing louder and louder inside his head he went into the tiny sunlit kitchen and opened the back door.

  A cinder path cut through the well-tended vegetable garden, turned at right-angles past an apple tree in blossom, and ended outside a brick garage. From there the cart track wound its way between high, overgrown hedges to Northwood Lane.

  He could see his own car at the foot of the track, its rear bumper flashing in the sun, when he reached the garage. There was no sound from Northwood Lane, no sound from anywhere except the drumming of a car exhaust behind the double doors of the garage.

  The doors were locked. With his mouth close to the leading edge, he shouted, “Are you in there, Miss Wilkinson? This is Dr. Bossard. Open the door.”

  For half a minute he stood listening to the rhythmic beat of the exhaust, his mind filled with the knowledge that he would get no answer. Then he sprinted round to the rear of the garage.

  There were two windows. He had to make a cowl with his linked hands to shut out the reflection of the sky before he was able to see inside.

  The glass was dirty and his own reflection kept getting in the way but he could see the radiator grill and the head-lamps of Miss Wilkinson’s Morris Oxford, a glimpse of the windscreen. The bonnet was raised and a piece of yellow cloth lay on one of the front wings. Every few seconds the vibration of the idling engine caused the cloth to tremble as though it were fluttering in a current of air.

  Against the left-hand wall of the garage stood a lawn mower. Near it the grass box rested end up on top of a wooden crate with compartments for bottles. Above the mower some garden tools hung from nails driven into the brickwork.

  He leaned nearer and cupped his hands more closely around his eyes. Now he got a view of something else. Between the offside front wheel of the car and the wall a woman lay huddled on the floor, her head resting on the roller of the lawnmower.