Bitter Poison

by Margaret Mayhew

  He turned to see a cat sitting behind him. Like Thursday, her entry had been soundless.

  ‘What a fine-looking animal.’

  ‘She’s a pedigree British Blue.’

  He admired the dense blue coat and the copper eyes. ‘I’m afraid my cat is just a stray old moggy.’

  ‘They’re sometimes the most interesting. I’ll open a tin of the duck. It’s one of her favourites.’

  He watched the cat walk straight up to the bowl and crouch down to begin eating without any hesitation. No suspicious sniffing, no cautious circling, no ungrateful rejection. Miraculous.

  ‘I’m very impressed.’

  She handed him the list she had written. ‘These are all good. I’m sure your cat will approve. Would you like a cup of tea before you go? I usually have one at about this time.’

  He waited while she put the kettle on to boil, took down a teapot and set out cups and saucers on a tray.

  ‘Have you lived in Frog End long, Mrs Jay?’

  ‘Three years. I came here from London soon after I’d retired. I liked the idea of village life but it hasn’t worked out quite the way I hoped.’

  ‘What a pity.’

  ‘The people are very friendly and I’ve enjoyed being a member of the Players and one or two of the clubs, but city life suits me better. As a matter of fact, I’m planning to move to Canada. I have some cousins in Vancouver and they have been urging me to go and live there with them.’

  ‘I hear it’s very beautiful.’

  ‘So they keep telling me.’

  ‘What about Mabel?’

  ‘I’ll take her with me. She’s very adaptable and Canada doesn’t quarantine domestic cats.’

  She had set the tea things on a tray and he carried it through to the sitting room for her. She lit the gas fire. ‘Sit down, Colonel.’

  As he did so, he saw the framed photograph of a young girl on the table next to him. Miss Butler must have sat in exactly the same place.

  He leaned a little closer to see it better. The girl had long dark hair and she was smiling.

  ‘Sugar, Colonel?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He took the cup of tea that Thora Jay held out to him.

  ‘That’s my daughter you were looking at. It was taken when she was sixteen.’

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘Yes, she was. Luckily, she didn’t take after me. She got her looks from her father. Unfortunately, he died soon after she was born.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Xanthe herself died when she was only twenty-two.’

  ‘How very sad.’

  She sat down opposite him, stirring her tea calmly. ‘She was married to Kenneth Dryden before he left her for Joan Lowe. Normally, I never talk about it at all, Colonel, but I feel I can to you. In private.’

  He should have known that Miss Butler would have guessed right about the name.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She was much younger than him, you see. He was already well-known for his television programmes. Rather a glamorous figure – much better looking than he is now. They met when she was working as an assistant on a television documentary he was making in Guatemala. I suppose it was inevitable that she would fall for him. They were married in Florida soon afterwards but I didn’t meet Kenneth until they eventually came back to England. Xanthe was obviously deeply in love and he seemed very happy with her. She went on several of his trips and had a wonderful time. Life was idyllic for two years, until he met Joan Lowe. Joan took him away from Xanthe, Colonel. And she had no compunction in doing so. No conscience whatever. Some women are like that, aren’t they?’

  ‘Kenneth Dryden must have had some choice in the matter.’

  ‘He’s a weak man, for all his success. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to say.’

  ‘But I’m sure you’re a very good judge of character. He walked out on Xanthe without hesitation and left her completely devastated – in a most terrible mental and physical state. She came to live with me in my flat in London and seemed to be getting better, but then, one day I came home from work and found her dead in her room. She’d hanged herself, Colonel. Made a noose for her neck with a belt tied round a heavy curtain rod, stood on a chair and kicked it over. She left me a note saying that she didn’t want to live any more.’

  He said quietly, ‘It must have been dreadful for you.’

  ‘It was. I got on with my life, but I had lost my only child, as well as my husband, so there didn’t seem much point to it any more. I still had my work, of course, but once I’d retired that was gone too. I had moved to Frog End, joined the Players and was beginning to find my feet when the Drydens bought Hassels. You can imagine how I felt about that, especially when Joan was given the part of the Snow Queen.’

  ‘I’m surprised that Kenneth Dryden didn’t recognize you at the rehearsals.’

  ‘I’m not a very memorable person, Colonel. It can sometimes be an advantage. He and I only met once or twice. He was often away, and a very busy man. Being nice to mothers-in-law wasn’t really his style. And I had never met Joan before.’

  ‘You can’t have enjoyed doing her make-up.’

  ‘I’ve always taken a strictly professional view of my work, Colonel. It’s immaterial to me whether I like the person or not.’

  He drank some tea. ‘I wonder; did she ever talk to you about her allergy to nuts?’

  ‘No. We talked about make-up and modelling and actor gossip. And about how impossible her daughter was. Of course, I could have mentioned that my own daughter was dead because of her, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Mrs Dryden was supposed to carry an EpiPen in her bag to use if she had an anaphylactic attack. Did you happen to notice if she had it with her at the village hall that evening?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Colonel. I don’t know what an EpiPen looks like. I’ve never even seen one. It wasn’t in her bag when she had the attack at the Manor, was it? So I imagine she must have left it at home. Very careless of her. And she paid the price.’

  ‘A very high one. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘Worry me? You mean because it was one of my mince pies that poisoned her? No, not at all. I’m not sorry she’s dead, Colonel, and I won’t pretend to you that I am because that would be hypocritical. On the contrary, I’m glad. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. People like her always think they can get away with everything in life but, in the end, of course, they can’t.’

  He put down his cup. ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Mrs Jay.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten your list, Colonel.’

  ‘I must have left it in the kitchen.’

  She fetched it and he put it away in his pocket.

  She said, ‘I hope your cat likes them.’

  ‘So do I.’

  At the front door she looked up at him with her blank and unmemorable face. But he saw the look of triumph in her eyes.

  ‘So far as I’m concerned, Colonel, justice has been done. That’s all I have to say. And all I’ll ever say.’

  As he drove on to Dorchester, the spectre of Detective Inspector Squibb reappeared before him.

  ‘So, you think that Mrs Jay knew all about Mrs Dryden’s nut allergy?’

  ‘I think Mrs Dryden talked to her about it when she was having her Snow Queen make-up done for the dress rehearsal. Or that she’d already learned about it beforehand. According to Miss Butler, Mrs Jay could easily have seen the EpiPen when Joan Dryden emptied out her handbag at the play read-through, looking for her spectacles. In which case, she would have known then, if not before, that Joan Dryden had some kind of serious allergy. Not too difficult to find out exactly what it was when she was talking to her later at the dress rehearsal.’

  ‘Why would Mrs Jay lie to you?’

  ‘To admit that she knew about the nut allergy would have meant that she must have offered up the almond mince pies deliberately to Mrs Dryden, knowing they would poison
her, instead of warning her against them. And it would have been easy for her to remove the EpiPen from Mrs Dryden’s bag in the village hall dressing room when she was on stage. The Pen had to be taken before the Manor party for Mrs Jay’s plan to succeed, Inspector. She had to persuade Mrs Dryden to take one of her mince pies before she had the chance to take a harmless one from somebody else. At the Manor Christmas party, guests traditionally only have one mince pie. More might not leave enough to go round. Mrs Jay’s lucky break was that the host, Doctor Harvey, had been called out to a patient, otherwise he could have treated Mrs Dryden.’

  The inspector was wearing his most sardonic expression.

  ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Colonel. And what was Mrs Jay’s motive, may I ask?’

  ‘Revenge. Her daughter, Xanthe, was the first wife of Mr Dryden. After he left her for Joan Lowe she committed suicide. She hanged herself.’

  ‘And when did that happen?’

  ‘About eighteen years ago.’

  ‘That’s a very long wait for vengeance.’

  ‘It’s said to be a dish better served cold, isn’t it, Inspector? Time and chance eventually provided Thora Jay with the perfect opportunity. She could give her victim what she knew would be poison to her but innocuous to others, and, at the same time, take away the means of her survival.’

  ‘So far, you haven’t provided a shred of evidence for me, sir. I can’t make an arrest just because some batty old maid like your Miss Butler imagined they saw a funny look on somebody’s face when they were handing round their mince pies. You’ll have to do much better than that.’

  ‘Mrs Jay was responsible for Joan Dryden’s death, Inspector. I’m sure of it. Isn’t malice aforethought a definition of murder? She had plenty of malice and plenty of time to think about it.’

  ‘Show me an iota of proof, Colonel. Proof that Mrs Jay knew about Mrs Dryden’s allergy and took away her EpiPen with harmful intent.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any proof.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing I can do. You’ll pardon me for saying it, sir, but you amateur sleuths are no help to us in the police force. We haven’t got time to go off on wild goose chases where there’s no case. Let’s just forget all about it, shall we?’

  The Colonel called at Lupin Cottage on his way back from Dorchester, tins of Munchies rattling on the passenger seat beside him. Miss Butler opened the door and led him into her pin-neat little sitting room. His arrival must have taken her by surprise because she had left the U-boat commander’s binoculars on the table by the window. They were usually kept out of sight.

  ‘Did you go to see Mrs Jay, Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, I did. You were quite right, Miss Butler. Mrs Jay’s daughter was Mr Dryden’s first wife.’

  She sank down on to a chair, hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. I was afraid of that.’

  He said calmly, ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mrs Jay assured me that she had no idea that Mrs Dryden was allergic to nuts.’

  ‘But I saw the look on her face, Colonel. Just like in Snow White. She was willing Mrs Dryden to take one.’

  ‘Well, they did look very good, didn’t they? And I’m sure she was proud of them and wanted them to be appreciated. They were certainly much more appealing than Mrs Peabody’s.’

  Miss Butler nodded. ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘As it happened, of course, Mrs Peabody’s would have been far better for Mrs Dryden.’

  Miss Butler shook her head. ‘No, they wouldn’t, Colonel. Mrs Peabody always makes her mince pies with lots of almonds. She told me so. It’s an old recipe of her mother’s.’

  Life had its unexpected ironies, the Colonel thought. Thora Jay needn’t have gone to all the trouble of making her delicious-looking sugar-dusted pastry stars and elbowing old Mrs Peabody aside. Simply removing the EpiPen would have done the trick. Though whether Joan would ever have taken one of Mrs Peabody’s disasters was questionable.

  Fate, it seemed, had loaded the dice unfairly against Joan. Nuts aplenty. No EpiPen. No Tom Harvey close at hand to save her.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing more for you to do, Miss Butler, and nothing more for you to worry about.’

  She gave a deep sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Colonel. You’re always such a comfort.’

  Thursday wandered into the kitchen and took up his position in front of his bowl. The time had come to put a tin of Munchies to the test.

  The Colonel took a moment to choose and, in the end, went for the Tempting Terrine of Salmon. He scooped a small amount into the bowl and stood back. As usual, Thursday took his time, sniffing suspiciously at it. The Colonel held his breath and his spoon, not daring to move. A cautious step forward and more sniffing. Another step. And another. More sniffing. A tentative nibble. And, wonder of wonders, Thursday crouched down and started to eat.

  Whether Thora Jay had been lying or not, when it came to brands of cat food she had been telling him nothing but the truth.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘I’ve made up my mind, Roger. I’m resigning.’

  The Major lowered his newspaper warily. The old girl had plonked herself down on the sofa opposite him, feet planted wide apart, legs more than ever like the Shangri-La gateposts. Not a good sign.

  ‘From what, exactly?’

  She had fingers in many pies, and it could be any one of them.

  ‘The Frog End Players, of course. I’ve decided it’s time to hand over the reins. I’m simply wasting my time trying to raise standards, to produce something of real quality. The village is only interested in vulgar pantomimes and Agatha Christie murders.’

  He didn’t argue the point, mainly because it was true, but also because he’d be treading on thin ice. Marjorie had by no means forgotten the polar bear.

  ‘If that’s what you’ve decided.’

  ‘Everyone seemed to have found Mr Jugge’s antics highly amusing but, of course, he completely ruined the play.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, Roger. But I do. All that hard work of mine and I might just as well not have bothered. Well, someone else can take on the job next time. I’m having nothing more to do with the Players.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll resign too. Keep a united front.’

  She said caustically, ‘I doubt if that will be much of a sacrifice for you.’

  In his heart, the Major was rejoicing, though he was very careful not to show it. No more heaving scenery around! No more dogsbody fetching and carrying! No more interminable hours of dreary boredom! Praise be to Allah!

  To his relief, Marjorie didn’t stay long. Her ladies’ bridge four called and, as soon as he heard the front door slam, the Escort stutter into life and the clashing of gears as she backed it out on to the road, he put aside his newspaper and headed straight for the cocktail cabinet.

  There was no need for stealth or subterfuge. She would be away for three hours or more. He let ‘Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes’ peal out merrily as he poured himself a nice little snifter. Back in his armchair he raised his glass to a golden future without the Frog End Players.

  Rum business, though, about Joan Dryden. Here one day, gone the next. Not everyone’s cup of tea, it must be said. She’d struck him as a pretty tough nut but she’d made a damned good Snow Queen, there was no denying it. Rotten luck about taking the wrong mince pie and not having that thingamajig at the ready in her handbag, though.

  Still, if it was true about the husband selling Hassels, it would mean other people moving in. New blood. Not a bad thing for Frog End, when he thought about it. The Drydens would never have fitted in, long term. Not really the type at all.

  The pre-Christmas garden talk at the Manor was entitled No Plant is An Island. An intriguing slant on John Donne’s perception, the Colonel thought, and decided to attend. Ruth chose her speakers well and, like Naomi, this one would certainly know what he was talking about.

  There was a capacity audience of keen gardeners crammed into t
he Manor’s panelled drawing room – scene of the summer fête committee meetings that the Colonel had attended as treasurer.

  This time, instead of arguments over trestle tables, teacups and entrance prices, he listened with interest to the expert explaining that every plant grown interacts with the companion plants around it. It could dominate or it could be kept in check by them. Plants could offer benefits to their neighbours – support, shade, attract beneficial insects, distract potential pests. Therefore, it made good sense to avoid planting large blocks of the same plant but to mix them up rather like guests at a successful party. It was also a good idea to grow plenty of flowers in order to draw in pollinators, as well as scented herbs to confuse pests guided by scent.

  The Colonel was gratified to learn that he had planted the right sort of things – rosemary, primroses, lavender, thyme, foxglove, echinops, sedum, aconites, his favourite hellebores, all apparently working their magic at different times of the year.

  The speaker also had useful tips for encouraging wildlife into the garden. A population of predators would help keep pests in check, he said. Slug-devouring frogs and hedgehogs, aphid-hoovering hoverflies, pollinating bees and even wasps were the gardener’s friend, he assured his attentive audience. A log pile left to rot and collapse made a perfect haunt for beetles and spiders and other helpful allies. Homes could be created for solitary bees by drilling holes in a block of wood placed somewhere sheltered, and a stack of bricks constructed with wide gaps left between them, stuffed with straw, twigs or perennial plant stems would create a Travelodge wildlife hotel to suit different creatures.

  The Colonel could see Naomi sitting on the other side of the room, wearing one of her more muted tracksuits. She would approve no end, he knew. She had always preached against too much tidying up and sweeping.

  ‘Leave the bloody leaves and stuff,’ she’d told him. ‘They’ll give shelter to some useful creepy-crawlies and things you’ll want on your side.’

  He also noticed Thora Jay among the listeners, which surprised him. The garden at Farthings where she had lived for three years had looked totally neglected. There had been no sign that she had taken any interest in it, and had no need to have one now since she would soon be moving away to Canada.