Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  Oh well, at least there was the mulled wine and mince pie bash at the Manor to come. He didn’t care about the mince pies – couldn’t stand the things – but the mulled wine should warm the old cockles.

  There was a large Christmas tree in the oak-panelled entrance hall of the Manor. The Colonel admired it as he arrived. It was as a Christmas tree should be, decorated with old-fashioned multi-coloured glass lights, proper ornaments and with a big silver star at the top. No tinsel, no plastic, no fake snow and no blinking and winking.

  Ruth was welcoming everyone. He thought she looked well and happy and was glad for her. She had gone through a terrible time when her mother had been murdered, and there had also been a long and unhappy affair with a married man. Tom Harvey had saved the situation, and now there was the good news of the April baby.

  She took his arm. ‘Thank goodness you’re here, Hugh. I need your help. Tom’s been called out urgently and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Well, you could serve the mulled wine, if you don’t mind? Tom made a vat of it with all sorts of lovely spices and it’s on the Aga keeping warm. The glasses are out on trays.’

  ‘Of course.’ He held up his bottle of wine. ‘Will this be any use?’

  She smiled. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. Thank you.’

  He went into the kitchen, ladled the mulled wine into the glasses and carried a tray into the crowded drawing room, working his way round. The mince pies were being offered as he did so and he could see that Naomi had been right about their varying standards. Mrs Peabody, a widow well into her nineties, thrust a shaky platter at him, mincemeat oozing from pallid pastry.

  ‘Do have one, Colonel. I made them myself.’

  Luckily, both his hands were fully occupied.

  The Drydens were standing by the log fire, Joan holding court to a group of admirers. The glacial Snow Queen make-up had gone and she was wearing bright red lipstick. She took a glass from the tray. ‘How was I, Hugh?’

  ‘Better than ever.’

  ‘It’s all been rather amusing, I must say.’

  ‘You didn’t mind the boos and hisses this evening?’

  ‘Oh, no. It made it much more fun. Who was the bear?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a mystery.’

  ‘Well, he certainly livened things up.’

  ‘Did your daughter enjoy the play?’

  ‘Clarissa would never enjoy anything involving me. She refused point blank to go to it, just as she refused to come here. We left her at home where she’s probably snorting coke.’

  He moved on with the tray, encountering Naomi with her own plate of mince pies, which looked a great improvement on Mrs Peabody’s.

  ‘I hear you’re standing in for Tom, Hugh.’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’

  ‘Well, save some mulled wine for me. Look at Monica Pudsey over there. She’s still in a big sulk over not being cast as the Snow Queen.’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘So I see.’

  ‘If looks could kill,’ Naomi said, ‘Joan would be dead.’

  ‘Luckily, they don’t.’

  He went back to the kitchen to fill more glasses and then more glasses after that, until everybody had one.

  Thora Jay crossed his path. ‘A mince pie, Colonel?’

  He took one from the three-tiered cake plate that she was holding aloft by its handle.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jay. They look wonderful.’

  They did, indeed, with sugar-dusted pastry stars on top of the mincemeat. Irresistible.

  ‘You did a first-class job with the make-up,’ he said. ‘And the Snow Queen was an amazing sight. She looked as though she was really made of ice. How on earth did you manage it?’

  ‘Tricks of the trade, like I told you. The lighting helped too. Bob Fox and I worked it out together.’

  He took the empty tray back to the kitchen once more, poured himself a glass of the mulled wine and ate the mince pie. He hadn’t tasted one in years. Laura used to make them for past Christmases, even when they were stationed in the tropics. He could remember her mixing up the mincemeat several weeks beforehand and putting it into jars. Dried fruit and spices, brown sugar, shredded suet and a hefty slug of brandy, if his memory served him correctly. Despite the name, no meat – minced or otherwise.

  Ruth came into the kitchen. ‘Tom just rang. He says he won’t be back for ages. The patient’s in a bad way. Do you mind carrying on as bartender, Hugh?’

  ‘Not at all. Shall I add some more wine to the mix?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  He poured in the bottle he had brought, stirring it over a low heat. When it was warm enough, he ladled some into a jug and did another tour of the drawing room, refilling empty glasses. The Major’s, for one. He looked as though he needed it.

  ‘I’m in the dog house with Marjorie. She thinks I put Toby Jugge up to doing the bear thing. Fact is I didn’t.’

  The Colonel smiled. ‘Well, whoever it was, he was very good.’

  ‘Did you see Toby in last year’s show?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘He was the Dame. Brought the house down. Good old Toby.’

  There was a sudden commotion over by the fireplace. Trouble of some kind? The Colonel, forcing his way through the crowd, found Joan Dryden collapsed on the floor, choking and clawing at her throat. She lay gasping for breath, her face red, her eyes swollen, her body twitching in violent spasms.

  Kenneth Dryden was on his knees beside her. He looked up at the Colonel. ‘She’s in anaphylactic shock. It must have been something she ate. Where the hell’s her handbag? Her EpiPen will be in it.’

  The black bag was found on a chair. Kenneth Dryden wrenched it open and tipped it upside down, shaking it hard so that all the contents fell out: lipstick, scent, comb, purse, keys, tissues, mirror, hand cream, hairbrush. He thrust his hand deep into the bag. ‘Christ, it’s not there! Call an ambulance, Hugh! And tell them to hurry, for God’s sake!’

  The rest of the guests had left, but the Colonel and Naomi stayed with Ruth, waiting for Tom’s return.

  ‘I’m responsible,’ she kept saying in anguish. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  The Colonel made her sit down. ‘It’s nothing of the kind, Ruth. According to Kenneth Dryden, Joan was allergic to nuts. But you weren’t to know that. There were none in the mulled wine and it seems unlikely there were any in the mince pies.’

  ‘There could have been,’ Naomi said. ‘Some mincemeat recipes have almonds. I used to make it with them myself. Not now, though – they’re too expensive. Of course, I don’t know about the others. People use different recipes with all sorts of ingredients. What was that pen thing that Kenneth Dryden was on about?’

  ‘EpiPen,’ Ruth said. ‘Tom always carries one in his bag. It’s for treating people in allergic shock. You use it to inject them with adrenaline. If Mrs Dryden was severely allergic she would always keep one with her so she could inject herself in an emergency, or somebody else could do it for her.’

  Naomi frowned. ‘Well, she must have forgotten it this time. Or maybe she didn’t see any good reason to bring it. Mince pies would seem harmless enough.’

  ‘If only Tom had been here, he could have treated her at once.’

  The Colonel put a steadying hand on Ruth’s shoulder. ‘The hospital will be taking good care of her. And her husband is with her. She’ll be all right.’

  But Joan Dryden died during the night. The news was all round the village by morning. Her death was reported in the local newspaper the following day.

  FORMER TOP MODEL TAKEN ILL AT VILLAGE CHRISTMAS GATHERING.

  Joan Lowe, who has died in hospital, was a famous model in the eighties. She had recently moved into a six-bedroomed period house in Frog End village with her husband, Kenneth Dryden, the former TV travel documentary maker turned chat show host. She played the starring part of the Snow Queen in the village amateur dramatic society’s Christmas play t
his week, and to much acclaim. It is understood that she suffered from an allergy to nuts, and this is believed to have been the cause of her tragic death.

  The accompanying photograph had been taken many years ago, at the height of her career, and showed Joan at her very best. At least, the Colonel thought soberly, she would have been pleased about that.

  THIRTEEN

  Miss Butler had been greatly shocked by Mrs Dryden’s death.

  Of course, she had not been well known in the village, nor well-liked, though some people had been rather dazzled by her. But it was still a terrible thing to have happened, and just before Christmas, too.

  It had been dreadful to see Mrs Dryden in such a pitiful state, choking and unable to get her breath. If Dr Harvey had not been out on a call, he could certainly have done something. The Colonel had immediately sent for an ambulance but it had seemed to take a very long time to arrive.

  Apparently, a post-mortem had confirmed that the mince pie she had eaten at the Manor had contained a considerable number of almonds, causing the fatal allergic reaction. Flora Bentley, whose nephew was a senior hospital consultant, and therefore constantly quoted as an authority on all medical matters, had been able to provide some interesting information about allergies. Nuts, insect stings, shell fish, sesame seeds and soya beans could all be deadly – even some plants. A beautiful purple flower called monkshood, growing freely in English country gardens, was highly poisonous if you so much as brushed against it. A frightening thought. Somehow, one never imagined such things existing in England’s green and pleasant land.

  Poor Ruth had been very upset – so unfortunate in her delicate condition. She had blamed herself for the tragedy, but that was nonsense. Nobody was to blame – not even the person who had offered Mrs Dryden the mince pie in question, because how could they have known about her allergy? She had never told anybody in the village about it, so far as was known. Miss Butler had never made mince pies herself and she had no idea of their contents. Cooking had never been her strong suit. There had been no requirement for it during her time spent in the WRNS and the meals she prepared now for herself were only of the simplest kind. Poached eggs on toast, a sardine salad, sometimes a small lamb chop as a treat. She thanked God that she had not been responsible for the fatal mince pie. It had been one of Mrs Jay’s, apparently. She herself had seen Mrs Dryden take one, and very delicious it had looked.

  She felt sorry for poor Mr Dryden. His wife’s death must have been a dreadful blow. To make matters worse, Mrs Dryden could, it seemed, easily have been saved by the emergency syringe which was so disastrously missing from her handbag that evening. An EpiPen, Mr Dryden had called it. It was not something Miss Butler had ever heard of.

  Thinking about it later, Miss Butler recalled the time when Mrs Dryden had searched through her capacious bag at the read-through rehearsal in the village hall. Black suede, if she was not mistaken, and very expensive-looking. Mrs Dryden had been hunting for her spectacles and she had taken all sorts of things out of the bag and piled them on the table. It was astonishing what some women carried around with them. Her own handbag, rather like she imagined the Queen’s to be, contained very little: a handkerchief, a powder compact, a mirror and a comb. The Queen would probably carry a lipstick, too, but she herself never wore it. Lipstick had not been encouraged in the WRNS and her father, the Admiral, had vehemently disapproved of it, though he had once remarked that it was a different matter for the Queen. Part of the Queen’s duty was to wear make-up, he had considered, in order to stand out from the crowd for her loyal subjects.

  Miss Butler had not been sitting at the table for the first read-through at the village hall, having no speaking part in the play, but her chair had been close enough for her to see Mrs Dryden’s handbag clutter and, among it, she had happened to notice a strange tube-shaped object, blue at one end and orange at the other. Now, she realized that it must have been the vital EpiPen. Other people could have noticed it as well, especially those round the table, and probably wondered what it was. Or had they known?

  Miss Butler made herself a cup of tea and sat down by the gas fire in her sitting room. It was all very disturbing. There was the daughter to consider, too, as well as Mr Dryden. Not a very appealing child, from all accounts, but she would surely be grief-stricken at losing her mother. You only had one mother in life, and though Freda Butler had only the haziest memory of hers, she had always felt the loss.

  The funeral was to take place in London, so it was understood, and would doubtless be well-attended by celebrities who would dress as though they were going to a party. Nobody seemed to wear black at funerals any more, which she found quite shocking. There was no respect. No sense of decorum. Anything went at funerals these days. People wore jeans or very short dresses with very low necklines. Even shorts. They wore loud colours, tottering shoes, clumsy sports trainers, and almost never hats. Even more shocking to her than the clothes was the curious modern custom of placing bunches of flowers wherever some unfortunate death had taken place, and very often by people who had never met or known the person or people in question. She had seen them left beside a road where a traffic accident had occurred, and whenever there had been some terrible disaster the newspapers showed photographs of flowers laid down by strangers for strangers. It seemed to have begun when the Princess of Wales had died so tragically and there had been not only a sea of flowers left outside the palace but scenes of uncontrolled and hysterical behaviour, usually only to be seen in foreign countries. Miss Butler had greatly admired the Royal Family’s dignified and calm restraint, especially in the face of vulgar and offensive criticism in the newspapers.

  It was also understood that Hassels was to be sold. An estate agent had already been observed calling at the house and photographs had been taken. It was rumoured that the asking price was considerably more than Mr Dryden had paid only a few months ago, but there had been expensive improvements.

  As Freda Butler sipped her tea, another thought occurred to her. Had the missing EpiPen ever been found? And, if so, where?

  The Colonel had resumed work on the wooden rocking horse. There was no hope of it being ready in time for Christmas, but luckily his granddaughter was too young to mind. The excitement of Father Christmas coming down the chimney still lay in the future.

  When Marjorie Cuthbertson had interrupted him previously, he had been in the middle of tracing the paper pattern for the horse’s head and had almost reached the mouth. The project had been laid aside to make room and time for the Snow Queen’s sledge but was now reinstated on the workbench. This time he had finished tracing round the head and was starting to saw along the biro outline when there was a knock on the shed door. The Colonel swore under his breath. Naomi? Flora Bentley? Miss Butler? No, she would never come to the shed. Mrs Cuthbertson again with another request? God forbid!

  It was none of them.

  Kenneth Dryden said, ‘I tried your front door but there was no answer. Then I came round the side and saw your shed. You look busy.’

  He lied politely. ‘Not at all. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your help when Joan was taken ill.’

  ‘I’m only sorry I couldn’t have done more.’

  ‘You did your best. May I come in for a moment?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He opened the door wider. Men were different. They didn’t touch things, or pry or ask a lot of questions. They understood sheds. It was a male conspiracy.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here. I’ve always rather liked the idea of having a bolthole where I could get some peace.’ Kenneth Dryden nodded towards the workbench. ‘I used to do a bit of woodwork myself, many years ago. Very therapeutic.’

  ‘I’m only a beginner.’

  ‘Well, you did a very good job with the sledge you made for Joan. She enjoyed the whole experience, you know. Especially that last performance.’

  ‘She was extremely good.’

  ‘Yes, she was, wasn’t
she? Of course, the part suited her down to the ground. What’s that you’re making?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a rocking horse for my granddaughter but I haven’t got very far. I hope she doesn’t grow up before I finish it.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted you. I imagine you’ve heard that I’m moving back to London and selling the house?’

  ‘Not much goes unnoticed in Frog End.’

  ‘So I gather. Clarissa has already gone back to London and I’m going to buy her a flat there. I don’t think we’d get on very well on our own. She hated her mother, you know, and she’s pleased that she’s dead. Thrilled, in fact.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not really so.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it is. Do you mind if I ask your opinion about something, Hugh? In confidence.’

  People often confided in him. The Colonel had no idea why. ‘I’m afraid I’m as fallacious as the next man.’

  ‘I’d value your judgement.’

  There was a pause and the Colonel waited resignedly.

  Kenneth Dryden said, ‘After Joan died, I looked everywhere for that missing EpiPen. I wanted to know what had happened to it. When I drove her to the village hall for that last performance, she was wearing the dress she wore later for the Manor party and carrying that same bag. It was one of her favourites. I searched in the car at first, thinking that the Pen had somehow fallen out of the bag on the way.’

  ‘Or perhaps she had forgotten to take it?’

  ‘That did happen, but rarely. She knew how important it was to have one with her at all times. In fact, she was supposed to take two EpiPens, in case one of them didn’t work, but she never did. She said they took up too much room. Her “stupid Pens”, she called them, and she hated having to depend on them. The spare one was kept on a shelf in the bathroom at Hassels and it was still there when I searched the house later. I went back to the Manor and Mrs Harvey was good enough to help me hunt. And I searched the room off the stage where Joan had changed in and out of her costume. Nothing either. She had a third Pen which was always kept in our flat in London and when I was there for the funeral, I checked and found it in her bedside drawer, as usual. But the other one – the one that should have been in her bag at the Manor – has completely vanished. I think someone took it, Hugh.’