Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To harm Joan.’

  ‘But who would want to do that?’

  ‘Clarissa, for one. She hated her mother enough to wish her dead. She told me so. In fact, she said that if I didn’t buy her a flat so she could leave home, she’d find a way to kill her.’

  ‘Teenagers say all sorts of things they don’t really mean.’

  ‘Oh, I think she meant it, all right. I think she took the Pen out of the bag before Joan and I left for the village hall that evening and that she did so deliberately. With malice aforethought – I believe that’s the correct legal phrase – which, incidentally, makes it murder. She knew all about the mulled wine and the mince pies, you see. It was written on our invitation.’

  ‘But she couldn’t possibly have known that any of the mince pies would contain almonds. As I understand it, most recipes don’t.’

  ‘Christmas and nuts go together, don’t they? It can be enough to eat something that’s been anywhere near nuts if you are very allergic – which Joan was. Food manufacturers print clear warnings about that on their packaging, but it’s always risky when the food has been cooked by someone else. We had a few scares over the years, with Joan ending up in hospital. She always claimed she’d never be able to use an EpiPen on herself, though it’s actually very easy. I’ve done it for her twice. You just take the safety cap off and push it hard against the thigh and the Pen does the rest automatically. I made sure I knew exactly what to do. If that EpiPen had been in her bag, she would be alive today.’

  The Colonel frowned. ‘I wonder why she risked eating the mince pie.’

  ‘Joan hadn’t a clue about cooking ingredients. We always ate out in in places where her allergy was known and understood, or we had special meals delivered to the flat. I would have stopped her eating the mince pie if I’d seen her take it, but I had my back turned, talking to other people. I blame myself for that, but I hold Clarissa responsible. I think she took the EpiPen from the bag and threw it away somewhere. And it all happened exactly as she had hoped. So, my question to you is do you think I should confront my daughter or should I go to the police?’

  The question was easily answered. ‘Neither. You would be making a terrible mistake. You have no proof that your daughter did any such thing, or had any such intent.’

  ‘My instinct tells me she did.’

  ‘Instinct is unreliable.’

  ‘So, I do nothing?’

  ‘Your wife’s death was the result of tragic mischance, Kenneth. Nothing else. You’re not thinking rationally. Bereavement can play havoc with the mind – I know that from my own experience.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘When did your wife die, Hugh?’

  ‘Twelve years ago.’

  ‘Do you still miss her?’

  ‘Every day. But I’ve had to learn to live without her.’

  ‘I left my first wife for Joan, you know. Xanthe committed suicide. Hanged herself. It was ghastly. The gossip columns blamed Joan, as though she had lured me away. The truth is I went very willingly.’

  ‘Was Joan married too?’

  ‘Divorced. Twice over, as a matter of fact. But our marriage lasted for nearly twenty years. I think it surprised everybody. Joan was in a class of her own – you saw that for yourself. An extremely beautiful and extraordinary woman. Very expensive to run, and sometimes impossible to deal with, but never, ever dull. I can’t say that she was the perfect, doting mother, because she wasn’t, but then Clarissa was always difficult from the day she was born. We sent her to a child psychologist but all that did was cost us a great deal of money. In fact, if anything, it made her worse.’ Kenneth Dryden was silent for another moment. ‘Very well, I’ll take your advice, Hugh, and do nothing, but I’ll still go on believing that Clarissa took the EpiPen. Unless, of course, you can find out who else did or where it is now.’ He took a card out of his pocket. ‘Here’s my number in London. Call me if you do, then maybe I’ll change my mind.’

  After his visitor had left, the Colonel went back to the rocking horse and finished sawing round the head. That done, he spent some time sanding away the marks and smoothing the edges, and while he did so he thought about his bizarre conversation with Kenneth Dryden.

  The man seemed convinced that his daughter had contrived her mother’s death, which was patently absurd. Clarissa had not gone to either the last performance of The Snow Queen or to the party at the Manor afterwards. Even if she had taken the EpiPen out of Joan’s bag earlier, on some wild impulse, she could not possibly have arranged for her mother to eat a mince pie containing almonds rather than one without. At least a dozen women had been circulating at the Manor party, bearing all kinds of homemade mince pies – from Mrs Peabody’s shaky platter of disasters to Mrs Jay’s sugar-dusted stars. A few with almonds, but most, apparently, without and perfectly harmless. There had been no way of telling them apart and no warning could have been given to Joan since nobody had, apparently, been aware of her allergy to nuts.

  The EpiPen had somehow been mislaid or forgotten – not so surprising, given Joan’s apparent aversion to having to carry her ‘stupid Pens’ around. If Tom Harvey had not been called out to a patient and at home instead, he would have been able to treat Joan immediately. Her death had been the result of a chain of bad luck. Nothing more and nothing less.

  He remembered his own state of mind after Laura’s death. A black pit of grief and loneliness and bitterness. Sleepless nights, empty days. It had taken years for him to get a proper grip on life again. Given time, Kenneth Dryden would see things differently.

  He continued working on the rocking horse, tracing round the main body next, sawing along the biro line, sanding and smoothing. Dryden had described woodwork as therapeutic and it was certainly an absorbing task. But he found himself going over his conversation with Dryden in his mind.

  It was certainly odd that the EpiPen had vanished into thin air. If he remembered correctly, the bag had been a deep one with a drawstring closure at the top. Dryden had had to wrench it wide open before he could shake out the contents. It seemed almost impossible that the Pen could have fallen out by accident. And he thought of the bright red lipstick that Joan had been wearing at the Manor. She must have retrieved it from her bag to apply after her ice-white Snow Queen make-up had been removed. Wouldn’t she have noticed then if the EpiPen was missing? If Clarissa had already taken it. No, on second thoughts, given the muddle of the contents, very possibly not. But someone else could have taken it in the backstage dressing room at the village hall, or perhaps later when the bag had been lying on the chair at the Manor party? Except that the Frog End Players were hardly a gang of petty thieves and the EpiPen was of no use to anybody else other than Joan Dryden. If it had been removed then it must have been by someone who not only intended to cause her deliberate harm but who had also somehow seen to it that she had taken a mince pie containing nuts.

  I’ll still go on believing that Clarissa took the EpiPen. Unless, of course, you can find out who else did or where it is now.

  The Colonel stopped sanding and smoothing.

  Not only who and where, he thought, but when? And why?

  FOURTEEN

  The Major had run Toby Jugge to earth in a corner of the Dog and Duck. He prodded him in the chest.

  ‘Come on, old chap. Spill the beans. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Me what?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. You were under that polar bear skin. Gave us all a jolly good laugh, but Marjorie’s been giving me hell ever since. She thinks I put you up to it.’

  ‘How does she know it was me?’

  ‘She’s got seven senses.’

  ‘But no proof.’

  ‘She doesn’t need any.’

  ‘Well, something had to be done, Roger. The audience were falling asleep and I woke them up. That old routine never fails. He’s behind you! Been doing it for years. They love it.’

  ‘Didn’t anybody see you tak
e the bear skin?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘What about Mrs Dryden?’

  ‘Her Majesty was closeted in her private dressing room having her make-up titivated, and I’d got the fur back on the sledge by the time she came out from behind her curtain to do the last scene at the palace. I have to hand it to her. The play was a yawner but she wasn’t. Damned bad luck what happened to her afterwards.’

  Marjorie had seemed to blame him for that too, though it couldn’t possibly have been his fault. Or anybody else’s, come to that. As old Toby had said, it had been a case of damned bad luck.

  He could remember the same sort of thing happening to a chap he’d known out East who’d trodden on a snake by mistake and got bitten on the ankle. A harmless sort of snake; not even very big. But the chap had turned out to be highly allergic to snake venom and snuffed it. An unlucky throw of the dice, you might say. Fortune’s wheel spinning against you. An unexpected twist of fate. One man’s meat was another man’s poison, though who would have imagined it of a mince pie? He’d never heard of such a thing. People must eat millions of them at Christmas without any ill effect whatsoever.

  He sighed. All in all, it was looking like it was going to be a pretty bleak Christmas. The only bright spot was that Marjorie’s sister was going on a cruise this year and would not be visiting as usual. She had wanted them to go with her but, thank God, the old girl felt the same about cruises as he did. Cooped up with hundreds of people you’d never met before, going somewhere you didn’t want to go to. Being seasick, catching some horrible bug and all the rest of it. Of course, there was always the faint chance that he might run into some talent on board, but he doubted it. So far as he could see, cruise ships were like Noah’s Ark. The passengers travelled two by two. Besides, with Marjorie never far away there wouldn’t be much scope for action.

  He roused himself with an effort. It didn’t do to get down-in-the mouth at this time of year. He must pull himself together. Look merry. Brace up.

  ‘What’s yours, Toby?’

  ‘Same as usual, old friend.’

  ‘Make that two doubles,’ he said to the landlord.

  As the Colonel walked up the Manor drive, he saw Tom Harvey’s car parked outside the house and the young doctor coming out of the front door.

  ‘Hallo, Hugh. I’m just off on my rounds but Ruth’s at home, if you’d like to see her.’

  ‘I was wondering if she was feeling brighter?’

  ‘About Mrs Dryden, you mean? Yes, I think she’s recovered all right. You were a great help, Hugh.’

  ‘I’m afraid all I did was lift the phone.’

  ‘You were also a very steadying influence, by all accounts. Thanks for that. I wish to God I’d been there.’

  ‘Could you have saved her?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’ Tom patted the bag he was carrying. ‘I always keep EpiPens with me for emergencies. Anaphylactic shock can come on very fast and there’s no time to waste. In effect, Mrs Dryden was poisoned and, unfortunately for her, it was deadly.’

  ‘I suppose the EpiPen hasn’t turned up?’

  ‘No. Ruth said she and Mr Dryden looked everywhere here for it, but no luck. They do go missing sometimes, you know, just like other things. Or people get a bit less careful. You’re looking fit and well these days, Hugh. Still alive and kicking. You’ll find Ruth in one of the greenhouses. I know she’d like to see you.’

  It was Tom Harvey who had got him through the early days in Frog End when he had been doubtful if life was worth living, dispensing common sense and sympathy rather than drugs.

  The Colonel waved as he drove off. He walked round the side of the Manor, across the frosty lawn where the fête was held in summer and on to the greenhouses beside the walled kitchen garden. There were four of them, all large, old and beautiful and in need of expensive repair and maintenance. Ruth, he knew, was determined to keep them going rather than replace them with cheaper, modern alternatives and he applauded her for it. He found her in the one furthest away, bent over ranks of seed trays and so absorbed in her task that it was several minutes before she saw him.

  ‘Hugh! How long have you been standing there?’

  ‘Not long. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. It’s fiddly work and I need a rest. Are you a customer or a visitor?’

  ‘A visitor. I called by to see how you are.’

  ‘Everyone’s treating me with kid gloves, but I don’t really need it. I’m fine.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Tom has talked me out of feeling responsible for what happened to Mrs Dryden. He says it’s nonsense to think like that.’

  ‘He’s quite right. You weren’t responsible, Ruth. Not in any way.’

  ‘Still, it was pretty awful, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was. But you must put it out of your mind. You’ve got other things to think of.’

  ‘That’s just what Tom keeps telling me. She wasn’t very well liked in the village, you know. Some people were actually rather glad to be rid of her. Flora Bentley said she upset the equilibrium of Frog End – whatever that’s supposed to mean.’

  He understood Mrs Bentley’s sentiment well enough but it was hard to imagine the habitual poacher of fête trestle tables for her cake stall going so far as to steal the EpiPen. Or anyone else doing it, for that matter, unless Mrs Pudsey’s long-simmering umbrage had finally boiled over? In any case, it was a subject best avoided with Ruth.

  He said, ‘Can I change to being a customer now?’

  ‘Of course you can, Hugh. You’re one of my best.’

  ‘How would I go about growing bluebells?’

  Like the Major, Freda Butler was trying to brace herself – not to enter into the Christmas spirit because she had never been able to do that, at least, not wholeheartedly. She could not remember how things had been when her mother was alive, but her father, the Admiral, had had more than a touch of Scrooge about him. In his view, Christmas trees were German and therefore forbidden, while turkeys, being American, were also banned. Carols, he had maintained, had mostly been composed by foreigners, and presents were a waste of money. It was all humbug to him.

  While she had been serving in the WRNS, Christmas had been quite enjoyable. There was usually a station dance and a turkey lunch where officers traditionally served other ranks. She had always volunteered for extra duty, having no proper home to go to. On retirement, though, she had found herself faced with Christmases spent awkwardly with the long-retired Admiral and, after his death, alone. Last year, Mrs Latimer, who ran the bookstall at the summer fête, had been kind enough to invite her for lunch but the gathering had also included Mrs Latimer’s son and daughter-in-law with three very noisy and badly behaved small children. She had been rather relieved to escape back to the peace and quiet of Lupin Cottage.

  But something other than Christmas was bothering Miss Butler. Her mind kept going back to the evening at the Manor when Mrs Dryden had had the great misfortune to suffer a fatal allergic attack after eating one of the mince pies. It had been quite shocking. Not being a natural mingler at parties, Miss Butler tended to keep in the background and to observe. What she had observed had not struck her as at all significant at the time, but since reading Mrs Dryden’s obituary in the newspaper and noticing an odd coincidence, she had been wondering whether or not she should speak to someone about it. There was only one person in the village whom she could trust implicitly. The Colonel. He would know the right thing to do.

  She had been keeping Pond Cottage under close surveillance through the Zeiss binoculars while she was summoning up the nerve to walk across the village green and knock on the front door. She had also been inventing excuses for herself not to go. The Colonel would very likely be in his shed, busy with some kind of woodwork, in which case he would not hear her knock. It was out of the question to go round the back and knock on the shed door; unthinkable to disturb him. And if she did tell him about the odd coincidence, he would p
robably think she had gone completely batty.

  She lifted the binoculars once again and trained them on the cottage, searching for signs of life. It was generally understood that the Colonel always took a sandwich to the shed with him for his lunch, but that he usually returned to the cottage later for a cup of tea. If she waited for, say, another half hour, she might catch him at just the right moment. It seemed important not to let much more time pass, not to delay doing what needed to be done. It was her duty, after all. But she needed a respectable reason for calling on a gentleman, especially after dark. If only she could think of one.

  The Colonel had put the kettle on to boil when he heard the timid knock at the front door. After several hours spent working on the rocking horse’s legs he was looking forward to a cup of tea and, later on, an even more restorative glass of whisky. Unfortunately, he had already switched on the sitting-room lamps and closed the curtains so whoever it was knocking would deduce that he was at home. In his experience, the inhabitants of Frog End were ruthlessly persistent when calling, so there was little point in pretending that he was out. He left the kettle to switch itself off and went to the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Colonel. Do forgive me.’

  He was very surprised to see his visitor. She seldom called at the cottage and never after dark.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Miss Butler. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘I’m sure you must be busy working.’

  She would know all about the shed and probably the rocking horse, too. Perhaps she would even know that he had now cut out the four legs and finished sanding them, ready for the next stage? Information on his progress seemed to leak out of the shed and penetrate the village by some strange kind of osmosis.