‘Oh, John.’
She looked up at him, remorsefully.
‘John, I’ve never really thought about what you must have gone through. I — I’ve been too wrapped up in myself and my ills. I’m sorry. You must have had a hell of a time, besides saving my life, you and Agatha Christie between you.’
‘Well, she seems to have weathered it all okay.’
Harriet tried to laugh. She wanted to. But the mechanism defeated her. All she was able to manage was a come-and-gone half-smile.
‘There was something else actually to Hume Jones’s arguments,’ she conceded then. ‘He was just telling me exactly how short a time I’d been in here, and he wanted to know the date today. I’d reached out for The Times a little further down the bed and couldn’t get to it. The bastard had noticed, and he chose to use it to prove to me, so he hoped, that I was still not fit to go.’
‘I can see how you might have resented that. But, come on, was there anything more? Have you told me now everything he said to you?’
‘Oh, all right, I haven’t. Not quite. He also produced a lot of stuff about the number of electric shock treatments I’d needed. I think that was all, though listen to this: when he looked at my temperature chart he wouldn’t say what my temperature was. And I bet it was normal, or almost normal. I feel as if it was.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. But, you know, it’s often policy in hospitals not to tell patients things like that, in case it makes you over-optimistic or plunges you into unnecessary gloom. Neither of which is good for you.’
‘Yes, that’s all very well. But I still want to come home. I feel as if I’d get on perfectly well there. And — And, well, at the end of a phone I could be doing something, something to find out who put that poison into my Campari soda. Or, as Pat Murphy very sweetly calls it, my cough-mixture soda.’
‘Good for Mr Murphy. And good for him for another reason, too. It reminds you that in charge of the case of the poisoned police officer there’s a detective with a very high reputation. He’s someone as capable as anybody of finding out who that poisoner was. You should have experienced the going-over he gave me.’
‘Oh, John, I know. I know all that. Of course I do. But all the same I must be somewhere where I’m not absolutely cut off from the whole business. You know, they won’t even let me have a phone. I need to come home.’
John dropped down on the little metal chair beside the bed, still clutching his roses, and sat in thought for a minute, two minutes, almost three. Then he spoke.
‘All right, I’ll have a word with Mr Hume Jones, and I’ll put your case to him. Then we’ll see.’
*
Half an hour later John came back. Harriet, looking at him with a flick of over-sharp anxiety which she was unable to suppress, could make nothing of the expression on his face. But, as soon as he turned back from firmly closing the door, he smiled.
All right, he’s agreed. Took a good deal of persuasion and heaven knows how many promises, which perhaps neither of us believes are going to be strictly kept, but it’s done. You can leave tomorrow, as soon as I can get an ambulance to take you.’
‘An ambulance? But — ’
‘Oh, yes, an ambulance. No-hyphen — as I’ve heard you call him, most ungratefully, I may say — insisted on an ambulance, refused to have the hospital supply one, and warned me, with a certain amount of frigidity, that hiring a private one is an expensive business.’
‘But, John, isn’t an ambulance one of the promises you’re not expected to keep? Surely it must be.’
‘No, I don’t think it is. Hume Jones said all the business of getting you dressed, getting you down to the car and driving you through the hurly-burly of the city could well be too much for you. He made an ambulance an absolute condition of agreeing to you going. Don’t forget you were on the point of death not so long ago, and just this morning you were too feeble to reach for The Times there on the bed in front of you.’
‘All right, yes, I admit it. It was a newspaper too far.’
She managed a small hint of a smile.
‘Oh, and I admit, too, that I am in a bad state. Worse probably than I feel I am at this moment.’
‘I’m glad to hear you’ve still got that much sense. So perhaps this is a good moment to put some conditions of my own, not insisted on by Mr No-hyphen.’
‘Conditions? You’re not saying you’re going to impose conditions on me before arranging for that ambulance? John, you’re not. I have to go home. Can’t you see that? I must be where I can do something to tackle this person who put that — that aconitine into my drink. I must get out of here.’
‘All right, calm down. Calm down, or you’ll really make yourself too ill to leave tomorrow. All I said, you know, was that I have a condition or two you must agree to if I’m to have you at home.’
‘No, sorry. Sorry, you’re quite right. You’ve every reason to impose conditions. Once again, I haven’t been thinking. Having me at home is going to make your life even more difficult than it has been since I came in here. I’ve never even asked you: how have you been managing at work? Does nobody mind that you’ve been taking time off, morning and afternoon, to come and visit me?’
‘Well, they may mind a bit. But no one likes to say anything. And I’ve been getting through the work easily enough, after all. So you needn’t worry your head about that.’
‘But you’ve been at it every evening, and I dare say half the night, haven’t you?’
‘Okay, but what if I have? I’m happy about it. So long as you’re getting better.’
‘Right then, what are these conditions of yours? I’ll agree to them. You’ve earned that.’
‘We’ll see when you’ve heard what I insist on.’
‘No, no, I’ll agree. I’ve said I would.’
‘All right. Number one: you go to bed as soon as you arrive and you stay there till I say you can get up.’
‘Agreed, agreed.’
‘Two: you have daily visits from a nurse, National Health if they’ll wear it, otherwise a private one. And the doctor, if needed.’
‘But, John, the expense.’
‘My condition.’
‘Oh, all right, I’ll agree to that, so long as it doesn’t go on for ever.’
‘I don’t suppose it will be necessary all that long. So, condition three: all the time I have to be away at the office, or wherever, you have someone in the house with you.’
‘Agreed. Sort of. I mean, won’t the daily visits from the nurse be enough?’
‘No, they won’t. You must have someone there to see you stay in bed where you’ve been put, as well as to bring you something to eat every now and again and to fetch and carry.’
‘I suppose that’ll be all right. But it’ll be more expense, and who are you going to get?’
‘Oh, no difficulty about that. There’s someone almost next door who knows all about the house, all the ins and outs.’
Harriet jerked up, and then fell back on the pillows.
‘Mrs Pickstock,’ she squawked. ‘No. No, I don’t agree. I absolutely don’t agree.’
‘Now, now. You’re not to get excited, remember. And there’s nothing wrong with Mrs Pickstock. I know you don’t much care for her, but — ’
‘Don’t much care — . No. No, I’ll be calm. But, John, your Mrs Pickstock is the most terrible interfering poke-nose imaginable. No, John, I won’t stand for having her in the house all day. And what if you have to go away somewhere?’
‘That’s not at all likely, not at present. But, yes, Mrs Pickstock’s my absolute condition. You must have someone there at hand, and, poor lady, she’s the best solution. Besides, she’s not all that awful. She’s a great Christie fan, you know, reads a page or two of the autobiography every night before she goes to sleep. Just as if it was the Bible. She and I have had many a chat about wonderful Dame Agatha as she calls her.’
‘I don’t care how many chats you have. That woman — ’
‘And rememb
er you owe wonderful Dame Agatha a great deal. Your life, if it’s not stretching it too much to say so. Where would you be now if it wasn’t for Hoisted Wolfsbane?
It was those words, twisted wolfsbane, that brought Harriet to her senses. Wolfsbane, monkshood, aconitine, poison. She was going to put all her efforts into helping track down the person who had twisted wolfsbane — if that was what they had done, in fact — to make the poison that had all but killed her. And who might, even at this moment, be targeting some other victim.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I agree to Mrs Pickstock.’
John gave her a wry smile.
‘That’s the last of my conditions. I know when I’ve gone as far as I dare. I’ve met the Hard Detective before.’
Chapter Four
Harriet lay in bed, trembling with exhaustion. Going from St Oswald’s to the house had been every bit as much of a trial of her nervous strength as Mr Hume Jones had predicted, even though it had been in the expensive private ambulance.
Have I been stupid, she asked herself. It’s true I’m nothing like as fit as I tried to convince myself I was yesterday. Perhaps none of the whole business was worthwhile. Am I really going to be able to do anything, now that I am here at home? For God’s sake, how can I have expected to be able to add even the smallest fact to Pat’s investigation?
She closed her eyes and let sheer weariness overcome her.
But after a little while — five minutes, an hour, five hours? — she found she was fully awake and had begun to think.
All right, on that sunny bank holiday — and the fine weather still seems to be here, if the glimpses I had of the outside world weren’t a dream — I was lying beside the pool at the Majestic Insurance Club with John beside me. We had swum, energetically, and I was pleasantly relaxed, well smeared with sunscreen, lying on one of the slatted wooden recliners. In my two-piece, which I think I can still get away with wearing even at my age. Just. John had got me a second Campari soda. And — always head in a book — he was reading. By a miracle of good luck, Agatha Christie’s Twisted Wolfsbane. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist wolfsbane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous —
God, I’ve forgotten what. Its poisonous what? Poisonous ... No idea, no idea. Yes, it’s true, I can’t rely on thinking properly.
She imposed on herself a few minutes’ rest. Then her thoughts began to march forward again.
Right, I was lying there. John got to his feet, put his book on his chair and said he had to go for a pee. Off he went. I looked at the cherry-red liquid in my tall glass, the lazy bubbles rising up. I decided I wouldn’t drink any more of it for a bit. I let my eyelids droop, drifted off.
And then ... then, while I was asleep, half-asleep, someone ... someone who for some unknown, unimaginable reason, was carrying about with them a dose of fatal aconitine, poured it into my glass. So when I sensed John coming back I opened my eyes, smiled at him, thinking yes, all’s well with the world. Then I picked up that glass and took a good swallow. Something wrong ...
And chaos. Chaos came.
But who? Who could possibly have done that? Poured the stuff into my glass? And why? Why? Why? Why would anyone want to murder me? Because that’s what they must have wanted to do. To murder me, or perhaps — extraordinary though it seems — to murder just someone. Anyone. But why? Why?
There came a tap on the half-open door. A tap somehow announcing that it was being discreet.
Oh God, Mrs Pickstock.
Before Harriet could decide whether to call out Come in or to feign sleep Mrs Pickstock appeared, sturdy, perhaps overweight, aproned, grey hair in a cluster of neat curls.
‘I’ve brought you up a nice cup of camomile tea, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s very good for you when you’re feeling out of sorts.’
Can I cope with this? Must make an effort, if only for John’s sake. He’s done so much ...
‘Oh, Mrs Pickstock, how kind ... But, but you really shouldn’t.’
‘No, no. We must do all we can to get you on your feet again. Your hubby didn’t tell me why you had to be taken to hospital so suddenly, but I do know you’ve been very ill.’
Oh Christ. Of course, the — what? — the attack on me is still meant to be kept under wraps. Pat Murphy’s decision, and a sensible one even if it’s not done any good up till now. But if Mrs Pickstock hadn’t said that, I might have come out with it all. I don’t have much control over my thoughts.
Fat lot of good I’m going to be making any sort of contribution.
‘And, look, I’ve put two Rich Tea biscuits on a plate for you.’
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you. Could you just put them on the table here?’
‘Yes, yes. Where you can reach them quite easily. I’ll just move the telephone down to the floor, so there’ll be room.’
‘No.’
It had been something like a shout.
Christ, if she puts the phone out of my reach I’ll be just as cut off from everything as I was at St Oswald’s. If I couldn’t reach The Times yesterday to tell No-hyphen what date it was, I’m not going to be able to get the phone up from the floor. Not possibly.
Oh God, I’m so weak. So helpless.
She braced herself to make an effort to speak quietly.
‘No, I like to have the phone here beside me. I don’t know why, but ... yes. Yes, it’s in case John rings up. He said he might.’
‘Oh, if it’s there for Hubby I won’t move it. Not an inch. I can squeeze the biccies on to the table somehow.’
‘Thank you. You’re very good. And I will try to eat them.’
‘More than try, dear. Remember you’ve got to build up your strength. Your hubby said he’d bring something for your supper. Otherwise I’d have got some nice strengthening thing from Organics ‘R Go, my really favourite place.’
No.
No, no, no. I should never have agreed to this.
‘Well, thank you again. And I think, when I’ve had that lovely camomile tea, I’ll have another sleep.’
Will that chase her away?
‘You couldn’t do better, dear. You couldn’t do better than sleep. But drink up all the tea first, won’t you? It’ll really do you good.’
And, at last, Mrs Pickstock left, creeping out on tiptoe in a way that sent Harriet’s nerves screaming up and down some sort of mental scale.
*
She did sleep then, though she hadn’t meant to. She woke when from downstairs she heard John ushering Mrs Pickstock away, even offering her the roses he had brought to the hospital the day before, and had, with a touch of meanness, or perhaps just good housekeeping, taken away with him in the ambulance.
I hope they don’t die on the old girl before she’s had some use from them, she thought.
Then John’s sunburnt face was peering round the door.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Ah, you’re awake. Mrs P said you were having a nice little sleep’
‘Right, I was. If only as a way of getting her to go.’
‘That bad, was it?’
‘Oh, Well, I suppose not. Not really.’
‘So does that mean you survived the trip earlier on without having too much of a setback?’
‘Yes. Yes, it does, definitely.’
Truth or lie, I mustn’t admit that I may have asked to leave that wretched hospital room sooner than I ought to have done.
John came and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Well, if you really are feeling reasonably okay, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
Harriet felt curiosity shooting up inside her. Much too violently, she knew at once. But she managed to produce a decent semblance of reasonable interest.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s this. Superintendent Murphy rang me just before I left the office. Some confidential news.’
She made herself draw in one long breath.
‘Well?’
‘Now, don’t let it get to you. But well, there’s been another poisoning.
Aconitine. It looks as if it was from aconitine.’
‘Who ... ? Who was it? And are they dead? You said poisoning.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid this time it was fatal. It was a young man, name of Robbie Norman. Robert, I suppose I should say. He was out drinking last night at a pub, the Virgin and Vicar. Down in Moorfields. I expect you know it. Know of it.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do, of course. It’s one of the places we keep a special eye on. It’s famous for its striptease performances, and when the lads come out at closing time no young woman on her own is said to be safe. But, John, what does this mean? Two of us poisoned with aconitine. Are they sure it was aconitine?’
‘Oh, yes, pretty sure. They’ve got to confirm it by analysis. But the symptoms, apparently, were all there. The chap had left his half-full pint somewhere and, according to witnesses, when he came back to it and took a good long pull all the same things happened to him that happened to you: the unexpected taste, the tingling of the tongue, the feeling of freezing cold. But with this poor chap the end came almost immediately, there on the spot.’
‘The same person must have poisoned both drinks then. And ... And ... ’
‘Well, Pat Murphy is the one who can best comment on that. And, of course, he wants to come and see you. He says there may possibly be some link between you and this Robbie Norman, unlikely though it looks. So what do you feel about him coming to you again?’
‘But he must. He must. I want him to.’
John picked up the phone from the bedside table and dabbed out the numbers.
*
Coming into the bedroom half an hour later, Pat Murphy looked even bigger, even more like a bull in a china shop, than he had seemed in the rather more bare room at St Oswald’s. Bulgingly blue-suited and red-faced, he loomed over Harriet as she lay propped up in the bed wearing — Jesus, what will he think of me? — a lacy woollen bedjacket supplied with evident pride by neighbourly Mrs Pickstock.
‘So, Pat,’ she greeted him, ‘there’s been another case?’
‘There has.’
‘And John tells me you want to find out if that young man ... What was he called? Rob something ... Robert. I’ve forgotten. I can’t remember a bloody thing for even five minutes.’
A Detective at Death's Door Page 3