From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  From a Poison Pen

  B.P. Smythe

  Copyright © 2016 B.P. Smythe

  The right of B.P. Smythe to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  To Valerie Churchill for giving her time with this book

  INDEX

  Constricted Love

  The White Room

  Mint Imperials

  The Letter

  Abigail’s Closet

  Girls of the BDM

  Love Me Do

  Bath Night

  Lovers Leap

  We’ll Meet Again

  Constricted Love

  Julian couldn’t take his eyes off her pulsating flat stomach. The belly dancer motioned towards him shimmying her hips to the Berber music. The large snake had curled itself around her waist as she held its head in one hand and twirled the ribbons on her wrist with the other. He cast a glance at Veronica his new wife. She acknowledged him and smiled back glad he was enjoying himself.

  She’d picked Agadir in Morocco for their honeymoon. The five-star Royal Bay Resort specialized in traditional tagine cooking. It was her favourite. He could take it or leave it, but she was paying; part of her wedding present to him. Better still, she was also bankrolling his new hedge fund.

  Still on their first week, this was the second time they had seen the cabaret. The plush El Morocco night spot designed in traditional New York supper club layout was attached to the hotel. Its art deco palm trees, deep red banquettes, Moroccan styled screens and Moorish archways pulsated with the rhythmical swift tabbayt .

  The elderly musicians playing taghanimt, mizwid, rabab and bandirs grinned at the audience as the dancer rippled her body in front of Julian. As she swayed, Delilah, (her stage name,) lifted the python and beckoned him to lower his head.

  Julian ordinarily would have refused. However, the cocktails had given him some Dutch courage and not wanting to be a party pooper, he grinned at Veronica as the snake was placed around his neck. He was surprised at how dry and warm it felt. The crowd around him applauded. She moved in rhythm as the Albino python watched its master, the head moving in time with her as she swayed from right to left, thrusting herself in front of him.

  Julian had already drunk four large martinis, just the way he liked them. Eleven parts gin to three parts vermouth with an olive, no stick, and a small piece of lemon peel curled in a fancy spiral fixed to the rim, all in a frosted glass. Cocktails didn’t come cheap at the five-star Royal Bay Resort, but then, why not? She was footing the bill, and he was enjoying himself. The double vision bore witness to that.

  With his head slightly stooped from the weight, he grinned at Veronica again. The effects of the drink and the incense table candles were making him woozy. Delilah shimmied and gyrated around him one more time then removed the snake, holding it high above his head as a thank you. People applauded him for being such a sport while he smiled with a lopsided grin and clapped along with them.

  Delilah had danced back to the centre of the floor with the snake in curls around her neck. This was the moment of her grand finale, when, accompanied by frantic drumming on the bandirs, she would place its head in her mouth. Veronica had moved from her seat to get up close to take a photo. She lifted the camera to her eye and just assumed Delilah’s frantic waving through the viewfinder was part of the act. Then came the flash.

  The snake constricted in shock. It reared at the camera with a hiss as Delilah gurgled,

  ‘No, Medusa.’

  Veronica flinched back with a scream. The dancer fell to one knee trying to tear the coils off her neck. She gurgled out again,

  ‘Help me…I can’t breathe…’

  Two of the musicians dropped their instruments and ran over. One grabbed the snake’s head while the other punched the coils. It seemed they knew what to do, as if this had happened before. The snake relaxed and Delilah, up on her feet, continued her act as if nothing had happened. She calmed the snake and kissed its head. Then, with the head inside her mouth, the drumming of the bandirs rolled and everybody was on their feet clapping furiously.

  Julian had slipped away to the washroom; he needed a lift. In the sumptuous cubicle of black and gold mosaic tiles with ornate brass fittings, he took out the 2mg Xanax bar. He’d used cocaine over the years but that was getting expensive. Benzo pills were cheaper and on prescription, and unlike cocaine, you didn’t have to hide them in the lining of your jacket or suitcase. Veronica had caught him once. But he’d just said they were for headaches and stuffed them back in his pocket. He swallowed three then cupped his hands in the running water to wash them down.

  Julian looked at his blurred reflection in the mirror. Over the last few years he’d won some and he’d lost some. Mostly lost, if the truth were told. This was his last chance to be successful. Christ! He’d even married for it. It was her money that was financing his portfolio. The banks could go and stuff themselves. He didn’t have to go cap in hand anymore. Everything now was at the touch of a pen on cheque book - and with no small print. Veronica was giving him carte blanche. He really couldn’t believe his luck.

  Mind you, that didn’t mean he wasn’t open for business. Even with restrictions on hedge fund investors, he’d never turn down a punter with a big enough wad. He’d take them on board, as long as they could cough up the twelve thousand, three hundred and forty pounds for the minimum thousand share block. Never one to miss an opportunity, even on his honeymoon, he’d done just that.

  Sitting alone late at the bar with a nightcap, having promised Veronica he wouldn’t be long to follow her up to their room, Julian had struck up a conversation with the belly dancer who’d come off stage.

  ‘Your performance was unbelievable. Please let me get you a drink?’

  The young belly dancer, dressed Bedouin style in bright red chiffon harem pants with a matching skimpy top, smiled at Julien.

  ‘Why thank you, you’re most kind.’ She pulled up a stool at the bar alongside him. Julien ordered two gin and tonics.

  ‘Julien Bentley at your service, madam,’ he joked, then offered his hand. She shook it with a smile.

  ‘Jean Watkins, but on stage I’m known as Delilah.’

  ‘I like Delilah. It has an exotic ring to it,’ he replied with a grin.

  ‘I can assure you, when I’m rehearsing in shorts and a tee shirt, I look more like a Jean,’ she laughed.

  They sipped their drinks.

  ‘So, was that for real, your snake going for you, or part of the act?’

  ‘Believe me that was for real. Medusa, my snake, is nervous of fire or flash photography. At a distance, she’s OK with it but not near her. I’ve had many scares working with fire-eaters and over-eager tourists wanting a close up. However, it’s all part of the job.’ She took another sip of her drink.

  Julien joked,

  ‘You should be paid danger money. Still, I admire your professionalism.’

  ‘The hard truth is I can’t afford to be choosy. Trained Burmese Pythons
are hard to come by and very expensive. So you have to make the best of what you’ve got.’

  Julien tried to be discreet, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was truly beautiful with her tanned complexion and Cleopatra hair braids. The jewel in her belly button with her seductive flat stomach was making him aroused. As he crossed his legs he asked her,

  ‘It all sounds fascinating. Tell me, how did you get into the belly dancing snake routine bit?’

  ‘I started out as a trained dancer and then, while on a holiday in Tangiers, watched a belly dancing cabaret. I’ve been hooked ever since.’

  Julien took a long pull on his gin and tonic then ordered up two more. She nodded at his offer.

  ‘This belly dancing work, is it full time or seasonal?’

  ‘Thank God, it’s full time, what with the hotels being open all year round. That’s the reason the boyfriend and I came over here to Agadir. Work back home in Manchester is a bit thin on the ground, to say the least. Even though you’ve got club land, it’s hard to make a living.’

  ‘So what does your boyfriend do?’

  ‘He works a fourteen-hour shift seven days a week as a chef in this hotel, while I’m doing the snake routine bit six nights a week. It’s hard work and we hardly see each other, but we’re making money. We also get staff living quarters on the complex at reduced rates, as we work here. We’re saving hard to get married and to put a deposit down on a flat back home.’

  Julien sat up with interest.

  ‘You don’t mind me asking, Jean, but, who do you save with?’

  ‘Just an ordinary Building Society. Why?’

  He added quickly,

  ‘Let me explain. I’m a financial advisor. I could get you a very good return on your savings.’ He showed her his card. ‘If you’ve got savings of over twelve-thousand pounds, I could treble your investment within two years, believe me, Jean.’

  ‘Treble, you say.’ Jean leant back thinking. ‘Yeah, but what’s the catch?’

  ‘There’s no catch. I run my own hedge fund, primarily to help new investors in business. Let’s be honest, Jean, at the moment you’re finding it hard to make a living at what you know best, am I right?’

  ‘Well yes…I suppose so.’

  Julien could sense a killing. He leant in closer to Jean and with his sales pitch, told her, ‘And believe me, you’re good at what you do. So, have you ever thought about setting up your own belly dancing school when you get back home?’

  Jean looked at Julien amazed.

  ‘Funny you should say that. I have been thinking along those lines for some time. But at the moment it’s just a pipe dream.’

  ‘Believe me, Jean, invest with me and I can make that dream come true within two years, guaranteed.’

  Within forty minutes and after two more gin and tonics, Jean was sold. As she was the one that handled the finances, slurring, she insisted that it would be her decision. In fact, she was so impressed that she even recommended her musician friend.

  Julian made a note in his contacts diary.

  Refusing a final one for the road, Jean shook Julian’s hand and tucked his card in the bra of her costume. He smiled as she made her way unsteadily to her sleeping quarters. And why not? He was pleased with himself and with the prospect of another punter in the bag.

  *

  ‘How would you like your eggs, Mr Bentley?’

  ‘Just lightly poached, Alyssa.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Bentley?’

  ‘The same please, Alyssa.’

  The elderly Filipino maid was busy with their breakfast while Julian buried his head in the financial section of the Telegraph. He bit his lip at the latest news. Bentley Capital Management was down another 0.8 per cent. It was the worst so far. Over the last eighteen-months, he’d seen his hedge fund plummet from 1,234p to 110p a share. There was only one thing for it. Borrow more money to shore it up, and hope the investors don’t smell a rat.

  Julian was forty-two years old and, as time slipped by, he felt he needed to make his money soon. He glanced at his attractive wife, just one year younger, sitting the other side of the fancy designer kitchen table with the dressing gown just off her shoulders and long blonde hair spilling down. Fortunately, she didn’t have a clue about the money, as city news didn’t interest Veronica. She had her head as usual in a fashion magazine.. All she worried about were the latest lines by Versace or Dolce & Gabbana to match her green eyes. Not forgetting the latest in Jimmy Choo high heels at four-hundred-pounds a pair - as if she needed high heels. With thirty-eight pairs in her wardrobe, and, at five-feet-ten, she already had an inch on him in height. Standing together in company did make him feel self-conscious. And, to top it all, yesterday the silly bitch informed him that she wanted to learn Moroccan cooking. Spend more money on another one of her waste of time, quickly forgotten hobbies. If only that was all he had to worry about.

  *

  Later that afternoon sitting in a deep leather chair, Julian faced his accountant wearing a sober Armani pinstripe suit. He nervously smoothed down his dark thinning hair while his pale face with sharp features from his mother’s side, concentrated as he listened to the bad news.

  The young good-looking Harvard educated financial accountant who Julian had been advised to hire and could just about afford, sat behind an ornate desk and seemed to take a negative stance on Julian’s hedge fund portfolio problems.

  ‘You have to face the facts, Mr Bentley; the banks aren’t going to lend you any more money. Believe me I’ve tried, but they’ve shut up shop since that recent stock price fall.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’ There was a hint of desperation in Julian’s blue eyes.

  ‘What about your wife’s money? Can she raise some capital?’

  He’d met Veronica on a Caribbean cruise four-years ago in 2007. After a whirlwind romance, they’d got married. Truth was; Julian was secretly looking for a wealthy business partner. He couldn’t believe his luck. Veronica’s Parents, now deceased, had made their money in tea back in India during the 1940s and 1950s. As an only child, she had inherited their estate. Fortunately, for him, she was a sleeping director on the hedge fund board.

  ‘Jesus Christ! The less she knows about this mess, the better.’ Julian put his head in his hands. Over the last eighteen-months through bad investments and poor management, the funds including Veronica’s capital had almost sunk without a trace.

  ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you about the risk. Too many eggs in one basket on those subprime mortgage securities. It looked easy money at first.’ The accountant sighed, ‘Even I lost a packet, but just managed to cover my losses.’

  ‘It gives me a lot of comfort to hear you scraped through OK,’ Julian replied with some sarcasm.

  ‘Now, now, there is no point in getting sore. If you don’t want to declare yourself bankrupt, you’ll just have to cut back.’ He opened Julian’s file. ‘If you don't mind me saying, your wife’s spending for one, is phenomenal. Statements and receipts for last year alone showed she spent more than a hundred-thousand-pounds on clothes, lunches, holidays and,’ the accountant took a breath, ‘her country-club membership including tennis and golf lessons and her own personal gym trainer.’

  ‘Don’t tell me about it,’ Julian moaned. ‘She’s now got herself on a Moroccan cooking course to fill up some of her boring day.’

  The accountant chuckled.

  ‘I’m glad you still have a sense of humour.’ Then, he turned serious. ‘What about where you live? You could probably raise a quick two million on the house’

  Their house was mock Georgian with 9 bedrooms just off Richmond Park in an exclusive Roehampton cul-de-sac. He would have gone for something smaller, but Veronica had fallen in love with it, and after all, it was her money. Even more so, the deal-clincher for Veronica had been the alarm system. The previous owner, having been burgled numerous times, had fitted the latest high-tech anti-theft devices throughout the ho
use including burglar alarm and security lights with CCTV, heavy gauge glass with fixed bars on all the windows as well as very loud panic buttons at the front door and in the bedrooms. With Julian sometimes away on business, Veronica would be alone in the house most evenings after her housekeeper had left. However, surrounded by her little Fort Knox, as she called it, she didn’t feel vulnerable.

  ‘She loves that house. I know she wouldn’t let me sell it. She called it her wedding present to me.’ Julian wrung his hands with worry and looked down at the carpet. ‘That would have to be the last resort.’

  ‘Well, she does still have some investments.’ The accountant opened Veronica’s portfolio. ‘There are seven other large properties in Europe and a small hotel, plus the shares she holds in her parent’s old company.’

  ‘How much do you reckon all that’s worth?’ Julian looked up with a glint of hope in his tired eyes.

  ‘The hotel in Italy has made a loss over the year but perhaps you could get two million Euros if it was sold at the height of the season.’ The accountant turned over a page. ‘The properties look better. If they went on the market in spring to summer, I reckon you could raise around twenty million pounds.’

  Julian’s eyes glazed over. All that money, but there was nothing he could do. They were all in his wife’s name. At the time of their wedding, Veronica’s twice-divorced sister had advised her to have a prenuptial agreement, just in case. The sister and Julian had never hit it off. The accountant continued,

  ‘Another thing, why such hefty life insurance for you both? The premiums are crippling. I’d cut that down as soon as possible.’ The accountant laughed nervously. ‘With a pay-out like that on either of you two, you’ll be giving yourselves ideas.’ He finished off with another nervous laugh.

  Julian smiled half-heartedly.

  *

  It was Thursday and the second time that week that Veronica had parked her silver 4x4 Porsche outside the run-down council terrace house of No 16 Hamilton Avenue, Wandsworth. She had done the same thing on Monday and Thursday of the previous week., and had stayed from 12:30 till 2:0 p.m. The private investigator clicked away from across the road. The telephoto lens poked out of the half open beat-up Ford Sierra window, as he took another long drag on his fifth stakeout cigarette.