Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘I’ve just knocked off for the day. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, no …’

  ‘Well, at least come inside out of the cold.’ He coaxed her over the threshold, down the hallway and into the sitting room. ‘Do sit down. I’ll light the fire.’

  She perched timidly on the edge of the sofa, her navy blue handbag resting on her knees. He had never seen her dressed in anything but navy blue. Her years in the WRNS seemed to have dyed her indelibly in that colour. She was sitting well away from Thursday who, in any case, ignored her, feigning sleep, though he would certainly be perfectly aware that she was there. The clue was the occasional twitch of his tail. Miss Butler was not a cat person, nor a dog one either, so far as the Colonel was aware. Thursday would tolerate her presence so long as she kept her distance and made no false moves.

  He struck a match and soon the log fire was burning brightly. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t have some tea?’

  ‘No, really, Colonel. I mustn’t stay long.’

  ‘There’s no rush, so far as I’m concerned.’ He sat down in his wing chair and smiled at her encouragingly. ‘I think it might be going to snow, don’t you? We could be in for a White Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, we could.’

  ‘Will you be going away?’

  ‘Oh, no. I never do now. After I retired from the WRNS I used to spend Christmas with my father but, of course, he passed away several years ago.’

  The late and fearsome Admiral whose studio portrait in full dress uniform dominated Lupin Cottage looked unlikely to have been very merry company. Poor Miss Butler.

  He said, ‘We service people were lucky, weren’t we? Christmas was always well celebrated. Very convivial.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Silence fell again. The Colonel took a stab in the dark. ‘Did you want to ask me about something?’

  Miss Butler fumbled nervously in her handbag and pulled out a folded news cutting.

  ‘I was just wondering if you might like to contribute to this, Colonel? Knowing how kind you were in helping with the Save the Donkey collection.’ She proffered the cutting. ‘It’s a very worthy cause.’

  He took it and saw that the appeal was not for ill-treated donkeys this time but for dancing bears. The accompanying photo was of a female black bear with a rope tied through her pierced nose and who had, apparently, been made to dance on the streets of India for twelve years. She had been saved by an international animal rescue organization and now lived in a bear sanctuary. He had thought that making bears dance to entertain people belonged to a grim and distant past but, of course, in truth there was no end to the cruel treatment of animals.

  ‘I’d be glad to make a donation.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you.’

  He fetched his cheque book and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen to write. ‘I hope this will be of some help.’

  ‘How very generous of you, Colonel. I will send it to the rescue organization. They will be so grateful.’

  There was no way of knowing whether the appeal was genuine or whether any of the money given would actually be spent on wretched bears like the one in the photograph. All one could do was hope so.

  Miss Butler had put his cheque away carefully in her navy blue handbag and snapped the clasp shut, but she stayed where she was and he realized that the visit was not yet over. The bears had been an excuse, rather than the real reason. He waited patiently.

  At last, she said, ‘I’ve had something on my mind lately that’s been troubling me, Colonel. I’m not quite sure what I should do about it.’

  He seemed to have missed his vocation. He should have been a priest, not a soldier – hearing people’s confidences and confessions, dispensing comfort and absolution. Given that he was a non-believer, it was rather ironic. Whatever Miss Butler’s problem was, he hoped it was nothing spiritual.

  ‘Perhaps I could help, if you’d like to tell me about it.’

  ‘I notice things, you see. I’m very observant.’

  He thought of the German U-boat commander’s binoculars sweeping across Frog End village green as assiduously as they had done over the wastes of the North Atlantic.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you are.’

  ‘I don’t go out to social occasions very often. I’m afraid I’ve never been very good at them. I find them rather an ordeal.’

  ‘They certainly can be.’

  ‘But I was at the Manor on that unfortunate evening when Mrs Dryden was taken ill. I was standing by myself, watching the scene, as it were, and I happened to see her taking a mince pie from Mrs Jay. Mrs Peabody had tried to offer one of hers but Mrs Jay got there first. Elbowed her aside, actually. Quite rudely. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was only later when I read about the cause of death in the newspaper that I realized the significance. They were very delicious-looking mince pies, you see. They had pastry stars on the top, sprinkled with icing sugar, like snow. I thought that if they came my way, I should like to try one.’

  He remembered how good they had looked and tasted. ‘Yes, they were excellent.’

  ‘Mrs Jay was carrying them very nicely arranged on a glass cake dish – the old-fashioned kind with three tiers – and she held it up to Mrs Dryden by the handle at the top. Do you know what it reminded me of, Colonel?’

  ‘I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘It made me think of Snow White.’

  He failed to see why.

  ‘Snow White?’

  ‘The Walt Disney film. My mother took me to see it when I was seven years old and I can still vividly remember the scene where the evil queen comes to the cottage door disguised as an old peddler woman and offers Snow White a shiny poisoned apple. She offered it up in exactly the same way as Mrs Jay held up her mince pies to Mrs Dryden and with the same sort of look on her face. Enticing her. Of course, I had no idea then that they would be poisonous to Mrs Dryden.’

  The film had obviously made a deep impression.

  ‘None of us had, Miss Butler.’

  ‘Oh, but you see, Colonel, I think Mrs Jay knew.’

  He looked at her. So far as he knew, Miss Butler was not in the habit of making wild and unfounded accusations.

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because it’s such a strange coincidence.’

  ‘What is, Miss Butler?’

  She fiddled nervously with the clasp of her handbag, clicking it open and snapping it shut several times.

  ‘I really oughtn’t to say anything …’

  ‘It might stop you worrying.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Well, when Mrs Jay first moved into Frog End, I called on her. People don’t bother to do that much nowadays, I’m afraid, but I felt obliged, knowing that she was on her own, like myself. She rents Farthings – it’s the last house on the left going out on the road to Dorchester. Rather a shabby-looking place, really. The owners have gone off to New Zealand for five years or more. Such a long way away. Twelve thousand miles, I believe. I don’t think I’d care to live there, would you, Colonel? Though I hear they’re very nice people and quite similar to us, much more so than the Australians. Not that I’ve ever actually met an Australian, except one. He was a sub-lieutenant who was born in Perth but moved to England, so I never felt he really counted, though he did speak oddly.’

  He steered her back to the point – whatever it was. ‘What exactly was the coincidence that has been bothering you so much, Miss Butler?’

  ‘A name.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘A very unusual one. You see, Mrs Jay was kind enough to offer me a cup of tea and while I was sitting drinking it, I noticed a framed photograph of a young girl on the table beside me. When I remarked on it, Mrs Jay told me that it was her daughter, Xanthe. I’d never heard the name before and she said that it was the name of a sea nymph in Greek mythology who was one of the daughters of Oceanus. It means “Golden One”. She spelled it out for me. X- A- N- T- H- E. You can say it in several d
ifferent ways, apparently, but she pronounced it Zan-thay. It must be rather trying to have a name beginning with an “x” that’s like a “z” and having to spell it for people all the time, don’t you think? Like some of those peculiar Irish ones. Personally, I prefer simpler names, though those seem to have gone out of fashion. Children are called all sorts of things, like after London boroughs and days of the week. Anyway, I said how unusual it was and how charming the girl looked. And then Mrs Jay told me that she’d died years ago. Of course, I said how very sorry I was and how dreadful it must have been. It’s always hard to find the right words, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very hard.’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about the name until I read Mrs Dryden’s obituary in the newspaper. It said about her once being a famous model and it mentioned that Mr Dryden had left his first wife for her. Xanthe Dryden committed suicide as a result, they said. It made me wonder if, by any chance, Mrs Jay’s daughter and Mr Dryden’s first wife could have been the same person.’

  The Colonel was remembering his conversation with Kenneth Dryden. I left my first wife for Joan, you know. Xanthe committed suicide. Hanged herself. It was ghastly.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘But it might not be. It is a very unusual name, isn’t it?’

  He said slowly, ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And Mrs Jay might have held a long-standing grudge against Mr and Mrs Dryden – especially against Mrs Dryden for stealing her daughter’s husband and causing her to take her own life. That must have been so terrible. If Mrs Jay knew about the allergy it was a very clever way to take her revenge.’

  The unremarkable and kindly cat lover he’d met seemed to have somehow metamorphosed into a vengeful hag offering deadly mince pies, while the previously evil Snow Queen had suddenly turned into innocent Snow White. First Kenneth Dryden and now Miss Butler had allowed their imaginations to run riot.

  He said, ‘Mrs Jay knew nothing about the allergy and she seemed very upset about what happened.’

  ‘She could have been lying and it would be easy to pretend to be upset, wouldn’t it? I remember that when Mrs Dryden was searching for her spectacles at the first read-through, she took a lot of things out of her handbag and put them on the table. I was watching her, you see, and I particularly noticed a strange tube-shaped object with blue and orange ends and wondered what it was. I’m quite sure now that it must have been the EpiPen that she was always supposed to carry with her. Other people would have seen it, including Mrs Jay, who was there too.’

  He said soothingly, ‘I don’t think there’s any need for you to upset yourself, Miss Butler. Nobody was to blame for Mrs Dryden’s death. It was a sad accident. The post-mortem confirmed it.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that, Colonel. But I simply can’t get it out of my mind. I wonder, would you go and call on Mrs Jay and find out whether her daughter was Mr Dryden’s first wife? If she wasn’t, then of course there’s nothing for me to worry about.’

  ‘And if she was?’

  ‘You’ll know what to do.’

  He escorted her home across the green, shining a torch for her. At the neat little white-painted gate of Lupin Cottage she thanked him several times.

  ‘You’ve taken such a load off my mind, Colonel. I shall be able to sleep soundly tonight.’

  He knew how Henry V must have felt on the night before the battle of Agincourt, wandering disguised among his soldiers. Upon the king! Let us our lives, our souls, our debts, our careful wives, our children and our sins lay on the king! We must bear all.

  Miss Butler was counting on him to sort things out for her so that she could sleep at night.

  Thursday had abandoned the sofa and was waiting in the kitchen for supper to be served. Miraculously, the Munchies Grilled Fish Medley, as recommended by nice Mrs Jay, still seemed to be in favour. After the routinely wary start, the Colonel left the old cat deigning to eat and went to pour himself an early whisky. He put another log on the fire and sat down.

  Freda Butler’s confidence was entirely misplaced. If Kenneth Dryden’s abandoned first wife turned out to be Thora Jay’s deceased daughter, he had no idea what should be done – if anything. It was no more proof of malicious intent on Mrs Jay’s part than Kenneth’s stubborn and baseless contention that Clarissa had deliberately taken the EpiPen from her mother’s handbag.

  He pictured himself solemnly reporting Miss Butler’s Snow White fantasy to a police officer – say, Detective Inspector Squibb of the Dorset Police who had handled the investigation into Lady Swynford’s murder at the Manor last year, as well as the supposed suicide of the actress, Lois Delaney. A sharply dressed young man, thin-lipped and with a sardonic attitude.

  It was easy to imagine the inspector’s response.

  ‘We get a lot of that sort of thing from elderly ladies, Colonel. You’d be surprised at the tales they spin. They seem to like the attention.’

  ‘Miss Butler is the kind of person who would go to great lengths to avoid attracting attention to herself. She was very reluctant to say anything to me but she seemed quite sure about what she saw.’

  ‘I dare say, sir. But there’s no need for her to concern herself. The deceased in question died from acute anaphylactic shock brought on by a severe allergy to almonds.’ The inspector would smirk. ‘Nobody gave her a poisoned apple.’

  ‘Her EpiPen was missing from her handbag; otherwise she might have been saved.’

  ‘People get careless, sir. They forget their pills and potions or take the wrong ones. It happens all the time.’

  Tom Harvey had said much the same thing.

  ‘The Pen is still missing.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt it will turn up eventually. Things usually do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got plenty of real work to do.’

  The Colonel considered his glass for a moment. The poisoned apple had only sent Snow White into a deep sleep and a handsome prince had wakened her with a kiss. Joan Dryden had not been so fortunate.

  After the dress rehearsal, he remembered her remarking that she and Thora Jay had got on surprisingly well. I practically told her my life story. The story could easily have included the fact that she was extremely allergic to nuts. Also, if Kenneth Dryden’s first wife had been Mrs Jay’s daughter, then she would have been bound to know a good deal about the woman who had stolen her daughter’s husband and driven her to suicide. She would have read about her in newspapers and magazines, listened to gossip about her, probably heard about the emergency dashes to hospital. And, when it came to taking the EpiPen, it would have been a simple matter for her to do so while the bag was in the village hall dressing room and the Snow Queen safely occupied on stage. Or, perhaps, later at the Manor when it had been left unguarded on a chair, though that was less likely as well as more risky.

  But, if Thora Jay had once been Kenneth Dryden’s mother-in-law, why hadn’t he noticed her at the Players’ rehearsals or at the performances where he had been very much in attendance? Men usually remembered their mothers-in-law, even though they might sometimes prefer to forget them.

  Certainly, Naomi’s comment about Mrs Jay being unnoticeable had some truth in it. He himself had failed to place her when he had bumped into her in the pet shop in Dorchester. And it must be eighteen years or more since Kenneth had walked out on her daughter. Enough time for someone to have changed out of recognition, or simply faded from memory.

  He had promised Miss Butler that he would find an excuse to call on Mrs Jay, but he was blessed if he could think of one. The poor wretched dancing bears wouldn’t do, however worthy their cause. He’d have to think of something better than that.

  He put on a favourite Gilbert and Sullivan record, hoping for inspiration to come to him as he listened.

  ‘With cat-like tread,

  Upon our prey we steal;

  In silence dread,

  Our cautious way we feel.

  No sound at all!

  We never speak a word;

&nbs
p; A fly’s footfall

  Would be distinctly heard …’

  As if on cue, Thursday made his entrance into the room, soundless and wordless. He sprang up on to the sofa and lay there, washing his whiskers with the satisfied air of one who has dined well. Thora Jay’s recommendation in the pet shop had been a good one. The Colonel thought of their interesting cat chat. It would be perfectly understandable to consult her for more tips.

  FIFTEEN

  As Miss Butler had told him, Farthings was the last house on the road leading out of the village. The Colonel stopped the Riley outside the gate on his way to the pet shop in Dorchester. She had been right, too, about it being rather shabby. The front door and windows needed re-painting and the garden was sadly neglected – the fate of many a house with faraway owners. He rang the bell.

  Thora Jay took some time to answer and, as he had expected, was startled to see him on her doorstep. He trotted out his lame excuse about needing another cat food recommendation.

  ‘Of course, Colonel. I’ll write down a few suggestions. Do come in.’

  He stepped into the house, which was shabby inside as well as out, and followed her into a depressing kitchen obviously unchanged for decades. She opened a cupboard and took out several tins of Munchies cat food, aligning them on the table.

  ‘All these have been tested by my cat and met with her full approval. And that’s not easily given, I can tell you.’

  He picked the tins up in turn and read their contents. Duck slowly cooked in a sauce with garden vegetables, Pacific tuna and whitebait caught fresh from the sea, using dolphin-friendly methods, chicken breasts with ham sauce, mouth-watering terrine of salmon.

  ‘They sound good enough for human consumption.’

  ‘Pet owners can be as particular as their pets. And cats are the most particular of all, as you and I know. I can give you a demonstration, if you like. Here is Mabel.’