by T A Williams
She set the dog on him and laughed as he fought to keep his faithful hound from climbing onto his lap. Finally defeated, the dog headed for the sandwiches and sat down hopefully by the tray. Linda set about showing Roger how much better than Henri she could be, at least in some areas. Now it was her turn to be wrestled off.
‘Down, girl! Stay! Sit! Remember you are dealing with an invalid here. The doctor told me to avoid too much excitement for a few days. Go and release your pent-up lust on Stan or Paddy.’ She laughed and added quietly.
‘Or upstairs on the second floor.’ He didn’t get it and, after a few moments puzzling, had to ask,
‘Why the second floor?’ He thought back to the previous week. ‘The vice-chancellor was wittering on about the second floor as well. Come to think of it, so was Mr Starkey. Did they mean our second floor? What goes on up there?’
She rather regretted voicing her continued suspicions. After all, his doctor had advised against any excitement for a while. So she chose not to go into it all at this stage. She just settled for, ‘You’d better ask Duggie.’ And then, before he could probe further, she passed over his bowl of soup. Assuring herself that he’d started eating, she changed the subject in the time-honoured way. ‘How are things going with St Bernard?’ As ever, it worked wonders.
‘I think I have done more fruitful research during these last few weeks, since we returned from Japan, than I did in the last two or three years at university. For years I have been living and breathing the Templars. But it is only here that I have really had time to think in peace and quiet.’ He was on the point of outlining his recent breakthrough when the strangest thing happened. As he was about to say more, a hot flush swept across him. He felt his lips swelling up. At the same time, a powerful stomach cramp hit him. As he curled forward in pain, he saw the look of horror on her face.
‘Roger, darling! What’s happening?’ His face was covered in red blotches. ‘You look positively ill…oh…’ Her voice tailed off as his body went into spasm and he was sick. In spite of desperately holding his hands to his mouth, it went all over the place. He looked like death. She jumped up and ran to the door. Throwing it open, she screamed at the top of her voice.
‘Help. Help, somebody!’
Afterwards she admitted feeling rather ashamed of her reaction, but at the time, particularly in view of the attempts on his life, she did not know what else to do. Luckily, within seconds, help arrived in the shape of Duggie. He took in the scene in an instant, and knew immediately what had happened. More importantly, he knew what to do.
‘Prawns. He’s been eating prawns.’ Turning to Henri, who was only a few paces behind him, he barked out orders. ‘Water. Bottles of it and a bucket.’ Roger was violently sick again. ‘Make that a couple of buckets and a mop.’ Henri made to say something, but the urgency of the situation had him running off down the stairs without delay.
Linda caught Duggie’s hand and asked, ‘How did you know?’ He gave her an encouraging squeeze.
‘Saw it for the first time just before he went off to university. We were in a Chinese, having sweet and sour. He was having chicken and I was having prawns and they got mixed up. Within minutes, he had the same reaction. Worried the life out of us. I had to dial 999. When they came, they told us to keep him drinking and throwing up. And did he throw up!’
He kept hold of her hand and tried to look encouraging. ‘This could be the first real test of your relationship. How do you feel about buckets of sick?’
She knew how she felt about buckets of sick, but she also knew, with utter certainty, how she felt about Roger. Gruesome or not, she knew she would cope. As Henri returned with the water, Duggie tried to cheer up the atmosphere, by adding wistfully.
‘Shame really. It was the best Chinese in town, but we never dared go there again…’
As Linda cradled Roger’s head and helped him to drink deeply from the mineral water bottle, Henri took Duggie aside.
‘That was vegetable soup. No prawns. He told me weeks ago that he is allergic to them. Here, try it.’ He dipped a spoon into Linda’s untouched soup bowl and sniffed it. His intention was to pass it on to Duggie. But he did not pass it on. He sniffed again and then, gingerly, tasted with the tip of his tongue. His face curled up in disgust. ‘Prawns. Somebody has put prawns in the soup.’ He looked as puzzled as he sounded. Behind them, Roger threw up again, this time into a bucket. Linda clung tightly to him, appalled to see him so ill.
Duggie let Henri’s information sink in. He was turning the prawn thing over in his mind when he remembered something. Just before hearing Linda’s cry for help, he had been chatting with a very sweaty Chief Inspector Cocker. The police officer had just come out of the fitness centre, and was on his way to the showers. Hopefully he would still be there. He slipped out and ran back down the stairs. Luckily he arrived just in time. The inspector, now fully clothed, was just emerging from the Gents’ changing rooms. Spotting the expression on Duggie’s face, he looked up sharply. ‘Nothing’s happened, I hope?’
Duggie took him to one side and explained about Roger’s reaction to the soup. The inspector listened attentively.
‘You are sure this allergic reaction is not something that needs to be notified to the emergency services?’ Duggie assured him that he had previous experience of how to treat it. The inspector nodded and went on, ‘If, as you say, the butler who prepared the soup claims that somebody tampered with it, then we must assume that this is, once more, an attempt upon his health, if not his life. Who knew of this allergy?’
Duggie had already been pondering that one.
‘As far as I am aware, the only people here who know about Roger’s problem are the kitchen staff, Henri, Linda and myself. There is a chef and a sous chef in the kitchen. They deal with food preparation for the club, while Henri, as Roger’s personal butler, usually prepares food for Roger himself. I believe Linda also cooks some of the time in the kitchen of the owner’s flat, on the first floor.’
‘The two chefs, would they be aware of the allergy?’
Duggie shrugged. ‘They might, but they only started work here two weeks ago. It seems unlikely they could be involved in trying to poison Roger. These attempts upon his life date back to a good few months ago now.’ The inspector nodded gently, and cast a brief glance at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. He could afford a few minutes more. He suggested a quick look round in the kitchen.
The kitchen staff had left an hour previously, near to exhaustion after a hugely busy day. On Duggie’s instructions, they had only cleaned the urgent essentials. They would deal with the mass of crockery and glasses the next morning – assuming, of course, that Mrs Vinnicombe did not get there first.
Cocker scanned the work surfaces and rubbish containers. It was not long before he found what he was looking for. He called across the room, and Duggie came over to his side. The Inspector delicately removed a glass jar from the bin with the end of a fork. He was careful not to let his fingers touch the outside. The label was unequivocal: Finest Shrimp Paste. He poked around a bit more in the bin until he found the gold-coloured lid to match.
‘I would assume that the contents went into the soup. Now, if I can help myself to a polythene bag, I will drop these items into the lab for dusting. Let’s see if we can get some good prints off them.’ The inspector took an evidence bag from his pocket and slipped the pot into it. He then put it in his sports holdall and gave instructions to keep any unused soup for analysis. As he left, he had another thought. ‘Try and think of anybody else who might know about this allergy. After all, we have been working on the basis of these attempts upon Professor Dalby’s life being somehow related to the manor. Maybe, who knows, they predate his inheritance. Maybe it’s an old enemy or a jilted girlfriend?’
Duggie shook his head ruefully. ‘In all the years I’ve known him, Roger has had very few girlfriends. To my knowledge he’s never dumped any of them. Anyway, I’ll give it some more thought, but it’s a real mystery to
me. To all of us. Thanks very much, Inspector, for your help. Sorry to disturb you when you are off duty.’
The inspector waved away his thanks, and headed off home.
Duggie slumped down on a seat and dropped his head into his hands. Another attempt on Roger’s life. There was no excuse. He had to tell him about the Salon. And he had to do it as soon as possible, before something even more terrible happened.
He drew himself to his feet.
Chapter 45
Upstairs, on the first floor, Roger was tired out, but at least he was no longer being sick. His face had changed from red and blotchy to deathly pale. From time to time, Linda managed to get him to take a sip of water. The main thing was that he was rational again. He gave Duggie a weary smile as he came in.
‘Reminds me of that damn Chinese restaurant.’
Duggie was greatly relieved to see that the allergic reaction had once more settled down.
‘The Emperor’s Garden, wasn’t it?’ He sat on the edge of the desk alongside a worried-looking Henri. ‘Best sweet and sour in town until you went and ruined it! Still, I don’t suppose a big Chinese dinner is high on your list of priorities at the moment.’ He grinned as Roger shook his head. Henri was far from cheered.
‘Mr Douglas, how can I possibly apologise? I cannot explain how the prawns got into my soup without my knowledge. I drank some of the soup myself not long before I brought it to you. I can assure you there was no fish involved. I’m buggered if I know what has happened.’ He was upset and, Duggie noticed, rather defensive. On the other hand, his command of English slang was still deeply impressive. Nobody, however, was attacking his culinary abilities.
‘Don’t worry, Henri. Nobody is accusing you of trying to poison Roger. Besides,’ he risked a bit of humour, ‘a French chef would never consider adding prawns to vegetable soup, even in an attempt upon somebody’s life.’ This time he did manage to draw a slight smile. He went on to tell them what the inspector had found in the kitchen waste bin. ‘Let’s hope they manage to get some decent fingerprints off the glass jar. It’s clear that somebody got at the soup.’
The butler gave a tired nod and slipped out of the room.
Roger was trying to make some sense of what had happened.
‘The last time I had an allergic reaction was at a university do.’
Linda looked up in surprise.
‘No, Linda, you weren’t there. I think you were in the USA on holiday. It was a faculty do. Apparently, the caterers used the same plates or knives or whatever for the beef sandwiches as they had for the prawn cocktail. As I remember, I threw up all over the head of department.’
Recollection stirred in Linda.
‘Of course. That was two years ago, when I went to see my sister in Key West. When I got back, there was a standing joke about Professor Lake’s tie looking like somebody had been sick on it. And nobody realised that somebody really had!’ They all laughed. ‘So I suppose a number of people in the department must have known about Roger’s problem, but I didn’t. And somehow, I don’t really see Professor Lake as a murderer….’
‘So who, then?’ Duggie voiced the frustration they all felt.
Duggie went to the hospital the next morning. He found Tessa sitting up in bed, looking much better, as long as you ignored the surgical dressing covering the side of her head. So much better, in fact, that her loosely tied nightie beckoned alluringly. He even had the unworthy thought that she might have deliberately organised the déshabillé for his benefit. He brought her a huge bunch of flowers, and some of Henri’s homemade cake. His efforts were rewarded by a hug, and the news that the doctors thought she would be able to go home the next day. Even better news was that, although her hearing on that side had suffered, she should have little permanent scarring. And that would be hidden by her ear. All in all, she had been very lucky.
He sat beside her, trying to think of things to talk about. He needn’t have worried. She already had a topic of conversation prepared.
‘Douglas, seeing as the two of us are alone at last, could I ask you something?’
Oh dear, he thought to himself. He nodded apprehensively. Was this going to be the moment she declared her undying love? Flattering as the thought might be, he started rehearsing in his mind the right way of gently breaking to her the fact that he was now happily engaged to be married. What she said next quite knocked the wind out of his sails.
‘What exactly goes on upstairs on the second floor?’
He felt his self-confidence desert him.
‘In what way, Tessa?’
‘I mean just exactly what do all those very, very sexy girls do up there?’
He cleared his throat and did a bit of quick thinking.
‘Well, they work in the Salon, of course.’
She wanted more than that.
‘Just exactly what sort of salon would that be then, Douglas? I spend most of my time in the main reception area downstairs. All I seem to see are gentlemen of a certain age, disappearing up there. I find it hard to believe that they are all just in for a BC&S.’
He must have looked puzzled.
‘Back, crack and sack. It’s all the rage in certain male circles to have those parts waxed and excess hair removed. My point is, who actually uses the facilities of the Salon? And for what?’ Her voice was low and friendly, but definitely inquisitive. He caught her eye and what she read in it must have confirmed her suspicions.
‘Some of the others have been saying that the Salon is a…’ She hunted for a better word before having to settle for, ‘brothel.’
Duggie realised that this was the moment he had been dreading. The game was up. If the downstairs staff knew what was going on, then it was only a matter of time before Roger and Linda found out. Mind you, he thought with a feeling of rising panic, if Tessa knew, then maybe they already knew, too. Rather than try to lie his way out of it, he felt it best to confess.
‘It’s not a word we like using, Tess, but effectively, yes, you are right.’ He saw her eyebrows raise. ‘You’ve seen the parchment, I imagine?’
The King Henry I parchment, with translation, was now hanging in a fine frame in the main entrance, right opposite the front door. It was hard to miss. She nodded.
‘It was all legalised centuries ago. It’s kosher.’
‘You mean you have really resurrected a medieval brothel?’ Her voice was awe-struck. He nodded guiltily.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ She was amazed. ‘So even after all those years, it’s still legal?’ Duggie nodded again. ‘So the girls up there, like Natascha and Ingrid are…’ Once again she searched for the right word, ‘…prostitutes?’
He couldn’t deny it.
‘Yup, Tess. As are Sindy and Mindy, and the rest, but that’s another word we try to avoid. Suffice it to say that we have a team of young ladies working up there, who offer a valued service to some of the most respected citizens of these parts.’
She nodded absently, still digesting what he had confirmed. He gave her a serious look. ‘Does this change the way you feel about the place? About your job?’ He knew he would be very sorry to lose her.
‘I don’t know, Douglas. I suppose I would need to think about it. It has all come as a bit of a shock.’
He took a deep breath. He couldn’t go on any longer with this crazy venture. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen, Tess, just try to hang in there for a few weeks, will you? I would hate to lose you. Things are going to change, very soon. Bear with me a little longer. All right?’
He saw her nod, and sighed with relief. He stood up and took his leave of her. He knew where he had to go next. And fast.
‘Just you get better, my dear. All right? Now, I must run.’
He gave her a chaste peck on the cheek and beat a hasty retreat.
Chapter 46
Roger was still feeling weak and empty, but he was back to normal. Apart, of course, from the broken ankle. He was sitting with Linda in his study, leaning right back in the chair, his leg ext
ended. He had his feet on a stool. She had her feet on Jasper, and her head on Roger’s shoulder. He was once more immersed in the Middle Ages. He was finishing what he had started to tell her about the Templars the previous night.
There was a tap on the door. Henri’s voice announced Chief Inspector Cocker. ‘Evening, professor.’
The inspector came in and deposited his sports bag on the floor. Ever cautious, he turned to ensure that the door was firmly closed behind him. Then he came over to them, and took the offered seat.
‘Evening, Miss Reid. I am here for another hour of purgatory in your fitness centre.’ He gave them a smile. ‘I thought I would take the opportunity to let you know that I got the results back from the lab at lunchtime. The soup was definitely laced with shrimp paste. The pot has a lovely clear set of prints on it. The same prints were on the edge of the lid. It is pretty convincing proof that he or she added the stuff to the soup with a view to poisoning you.’
‘And do the prints match anybody on your records?’ Almost all staff members had been fingerprinted. The answer was disappointing.
‘I am afraid that the prints don’t match those of anybody here at the club.’ He shook his head. ‘I must admit we are still short of a few prints; particularly those of some people working in the Salon on the second floor. But so far it’s all negative.’
Linda felt a mixture of emotions. On the one hand, she was relieved that the finger of suspicion no longer pointed at the staff of the manor ? at least as far as this particular attempt upon his life was concerned. On the other, she was frustrated to know that they were no nearer to getting the culprit. And, as had already been demonstrated, the longer he was out there, the more times he would attempt to complete what he had started. Maybe it was time she and Roger went on holiday again, somewhere really away from it all. But, she glanced at his plaster cast, there was no way he would be able to travel any distance for weeks to come.
‘One thing I can tell you, is that our friend Mr Kevin Jennings has a totally cast-iron alibi this time. Cast is the operative word. I received a faxed copy of a medical certificate today, from a hospital in Salzburg. Mr Jenkins is currently in traction, after breaking his ankle in a skiing accident on Christmas Eve.’ Noticing Roger’s expression, he smiled. ‘Funny old world, really. Coincidences all the time.’