by JT Lawrence
Quentin, the team leader, was updating them on their quick progress. He had a round frame and a Scottish accent. The morning light caught the red in his beard.
"We've got most of the rubbish out, into the skips already. I've ordered a new one, for the rest. All the good furniture has been wrapped up and sent to storage. And the clothes and personal effects."
“Thank you,” said Linda. “Your team is very efficient.”
“It doesn’t pay to hang around.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Especially in a place like this.”
“Och, I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Really?”
“I have stories that would scare the bejeezus out of you, lady.”
“I’d love to hear them.”
Quentin laughed. “Really?”
“She’s a writer, you see,” said Andrew.
“Ah. Now that explains it. Always looking for stories, eh? Well, mine would give you nightmares. Nightmares!”
“I have enough of my own.”
“Well, then, let’s not exchange them, shall we? You need all the rest you can get, by the looks of you.”
Linda blinked. “I’ll try not to be offended by that remark.”
"I just meant your delicate condition, is all. You need to rest up while you can. I've got three little buggers running around at home, and I can tell you, sleep is a long forgotten commodity in our house."
Andrew seemed put out by this. Perhaps they’d stick to one “little bugger”.
“How much longer will your team need?”
“We’ll try to be out of your hair by sunset.”
“Thank you again,” said Andrew.
“Oh,” said Quentin, scratching his head. “Just a wee couple o’things—”
“Yes?”
“The kitchen things—”
“They can also go. Everything can go.”
"It's just that there's a soup kitchen right up the road, you see? At the church."
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
"They do good work. And I'd hate to just turf out all the food in the larder. There are loads of things that haven't even been opened — flour, sugar, tinned food — not to mention the pots and pans. It would come in really handy at the shelter, I'm sure. They'll collect. You don't have to bother about that. Consider it gone."
“All right, good. That sounds perfect,” said Linda. “What was the other thing?”
"Ah. My men set aside a few things—they're in the next room—" Quentin gestured for them to go together, and they followed his lead. "Small things, not things you'd want to be stored with the furniture, I think. But they weren't sure they were junk, either. An old photograph album—my men don't like to throw away photos—and a few bits and bobs."
“What are those strange things?” asked Andrew. “Toy tea set spoons?”
The flush of red on Quentin’s skin deepened, and he cleared his throat. “I believe they’re … antique heroin spoons, sir.”
Andrew’s jaw almost hit the ground. “Heroin?”
"Although she wasn't to know that, was she? They're ancient."
Linda picked up a glass trinket off the table. “Look at this beautiful thing! Handblown glass. So tiny. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Andrew, inspecting it. “A vial, of sorts. Sealed with … wax?”
“I wonder what this liquid is, inside?”
“God, in this house.” Andrew shuddered. “It could be anything.”
“Now,” said Quentin. “I know you’re heading back home tomorrow, but there’s an antique fair in town this weekend. Your timing is excellent.”
“An antique fair?” said Linda. It wasn’t her usual cup of tea, and she was tired.
“If I were you, I’d take this lot along and see what you can get for it. You may be surprised at what some “junk” has been picked up for. That cuckoo clock, for one.”
“That horribly kitsch thing?” said Linda. “I’m surprised it’s not in the heap outside.”
“You’d be surprised, ma’am.”
“I suppose that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and all that,” said Andrew.
“I think you may be able to get something for it. And they’re good, honest people. They won’t try to do you in.”
Linda was tempted. Having the removal team take care of the dirty work had not come cheap, despite her brother in the UK paying half the bill. Perhaps if she sold the clock she’d be able to offset some of the expenses, even if it was in a small way. They still needed so many things for the baby. At the very least, they’d have somewhere to go for lunch.
The Antique Fair was held on the rugby field of the local high school, and it was a hive of activity. People of all persuasions buzzed around and the smell of cinnamon pancakes and frying doughnuts made Linda’s mouth water. The clock was snapped up within minutes.
"Ah, yes, it's a beauty," said the antique dealer. "I'd definitely be interested in that."
Linda looked at the old man in his grey apron and gold-framed specs. “Really?”
“Oh, yes, love. It’s a Black Forest original, that clock is. Schwarzwald. All it needs is a little TLC, and I’ll give it a good home.”
He took a short, blunt pencil from behind his ear and scribbled his offer on a scrap of paper, then passed it to them.
“Wonderful!” said Andrew. Linda and her husband looked at each other, not quite believing their luck.
"Okay. So that's the Chinese silver filigree card case, the brass barley twist candlesticks, the Royal Doulton gravy boat, the silver-footed tray, and the darling clock."
“Yes.”
"Would you prefer a cheque or EFT?"
“Don’t forget about the glass thing,” said Andrew to Linda. “The vial.”
“Oh!” said Linda, rifling in her handbag. “Of course. I wrapped it in cotton wool. It looks fragile. “Look at this. Isn’t it charming? I don’t expect to sell it, but I was interested in its origin.”
The antique dealer took it from her and squinted. "Oh, no," he said, "I would never accept this."
“I didn’t mean for you to make an offer. I just I thought it was rather quaint—”
"It's not that, love. It is very pretty, indeed. But I know that kind of bottle, and there's only one place it will be welcome."
“Where’s that?” asked Andrew.
“The Poison Control Centre.”
They finalised their transaction with the dealer and headed to the nearest food truck for a prego roll and chips. They found a table in the shade of a tree, one of dozens covered in pretty tablecloths.
“Well,” said Andrew. “That went better than expected. I didn’t think we’d get anything for that lot.
“Me neither! I guess this lunch is on Hodge.”
They tap their bottles of water together.
“It’s the bloody least she can do!”
“And a tip for Quentin and his team,” said Linda.
“And maybe a cot for the baby,” said Andrew, and they looked at each other and held hands.
“I just don’t understand why she’d have that poison in the house.”
“She probably didn’t even know what it was. She liked collecting things, that’s all.”
“But … heroin spoons? Poison?”
“It probably just came with the house. You know what those old houses are like. Walls coated in mercury paint and all manner of poisons in the basement. They were pretty free and easy with them in the old days. You’d get arsenic at the local pharmacy, thallium at the grocers’. Any old lady could buy enough poison to fell an elephant for a couple of cents—”
“—And without raising any kind of suspicion,” said Linda.
“Ah, I see,” said Andrew, wiping at his mouth with his paper serviette. He pointed at Linda. “You’re hatching a new story.”
“Am I?”
“I can always tell. I can see that wicked glimmer in your eye.”
Linda laughed. “Don’t be ridiculou
s.”
“So, you deny it?”
“No … I’m just not sure there’s a story, yet.”
“There’s always a story.”
On the way home, Andrew turns the car radio down. “Look, I’m not going to nag you.”
“Good!” said Linda. “What are you not going to nag me about?”
“I’m just asking you … I won’t mention it again. I just want to make sure that you’re sure.”
Linda looked out of the window. “I’m sure.”
“It just seems crazy that we don’t visit her while we’re here.”
“I know.”
“We’re not even 10 kilometres away from the hospital. I can turn the car around.”
“No, let’s get home.”
“Okay. I’m sure you have your reasons. And you’ve done a lot for her. Sorting out the house. Finding a new place.”
“Putting myself into a black hole of debt even though I’m about to have a child.”
“What I mean, is, you shouldn’t feel guilty. About not seeing her. Even though she’s your only living relative apart from your brother. And she’s in hosp—”
“—I thought you said you weren’t going to nag?”
"I don't mean to push you. I'm just finding it difficult to understand. I mean, we haven't visited her since you fell pregnant."
Linda felt suddenly exhausted. “It’s not that I’m not going to see her. I’ll see her when I’m ready.”
A few days later, while Andrew was at work, Linda strolled to the restaurant up the road. The walk did her good, even though her back was still aching when she arrived. Her literary agent was waiting at the table for her.
“Linda!” she cried, with open arms. “Darling.”
“Felicity!”
The agent jumped up, and they hugged. She was looking glamorous, as usual, and Linda self-consciously tugged at her old jacket to hide the fraying sleeves of the blouse beneath it.
“Look at you!” exclaimed Felicity. “What a beautiful bump! How are you? How is Brian?”
“Brian?” asked Linda. “Do you mean Andrew?”
“Brian, Andrew, they’re all the same at the end of the day, aren’t they?”
Linda laughed. Felicity married and divorced more times than she changed hairdressers, which was often.
“We’re good,” said Linda. “We’re all good. You?”
“Good! Great! Stressed! Time-starved. Exhausted. You know, the usual. Sometimes I think these bags under my eyes will never go away.”
“Which bags?”
“Ah, you’re so kind,” laughed Felicity and banged the tabletop. “A liar, but a kind liar.”
Linda smiled and put her hand on her belly. It wasn’t a conscious gesture, it often just floated there of its own accord.
"Wine?" asked Felicity. "I've got a bottle of Riesling here. It's delicious. I've heard that riesling is The New Thing."
“No, thanks,” said Linda, patting her bump. “I’m still on the wagon.”
“Oh! Of course! Sorry.”
"Ah, it's not for much longer. Anyway, more for you!"
They clink glasses and grin at each other.
“I’ve had an idea,” said Linda, playing with the silver fork on the table. “For a new book.”
“Well!” said Felicity, throwing back her last sip and topping her glass up. “That is good news. I wasn’t expecting anything from you while you were…” she gestures in a circular motion at Linda’s stomach. “Baking your bun.”
“I know. It wasn’t planned. The new idea, I mean. I tried to ignore it. It’s really not the time to start a new project. But it keeps nagging at me. It wakes me up at night. Or, rather, the baby wakes me up at night, by kicking my ribcage, but then the book idea keeps me awake.”
“Tell me more!”
“My grandmother’s house. It got me thinking.”
“Oh, God, I forgot to ask. How is old Podge?”
“Out of ICU—”
“That’s great news.”
"—but still in the hospital. They say she'll be ready to go home soon. Her new home, that is."
“Good. Good.”
“We found poison. In her house.”
Felicity paused, bread roll halfway up to her lips. "Poison? What? Like, rat poison?"
“Maybe.”
She put down the roll. “Maybe?”
“Probably. It was in an antique glass bottle. A beautiful thing. And it just started me thinking. You know. What if it wasn’t for rats?”
"You want to write about poison? About poisoning people?"
“Not just poison, but about the philosophy of poison.”
“’The Philosophy of Poison’ — God, I love the sound of that. When can you start?”
"That's why we're friends," said Linda. "You appreciate my disturbed mind. Andrew thinks I'm terrible and dark, you know. He wonders how I come up with such awful things. Especially as I'm about to become the mother of his child. But I just find it fascinating, you know? I mean, it's one thing whipping out a gun and shooting someone. That out-right kind of violence. Blood and gore. But there is something inherently intriguing to me about the insidiousness of the act of killing someone with food. I mean, the whole point of cooking for someone—to nourish them, to show that you love them—and then you put poison in that food…"
“It’s compelling.”
Linda stopped playing with the fork and interlaced her fingers. “And then there’s the botanical side of it … poisonous gardens. Shiny black Nightshade berries. Hairy Hemlock.”
“A wicked witch’s potion garden.”
“And the biological side: how the poisoner leaves their indelible mark on their victim. Streaks of toxins in their hair and fingernails. Like, a code. A history you can’t erase.”
"Look, for what it's worth, I think it's definitely worth exploring. The Philosophy of Poison. Send me a proposal, and I'll take it to Finch."
“I can send more than that. I’ve already started the research. I couldn’t help myself.”
“What do you have?”
“Some stories. True crime. I’ll dig deeper, of course. But that’s where I’m starting. Then…”
“Then?”
“Then, maybe, I’ll think of my own. My own story of poison.”
WIDOW COTTON
BRITAIN, 1873
The widow Mary Ann Cotton was branded the worst mass murderer Britain had ever seen.
West Auckland welfare worker Thomas Riley first became suspicious when Mrs Cotton approached him, asking if he had room in the County Durham workhouse for her seven-year-old stepson, Charles Edward. The request itself was not unusual—times were tough—and the boy was taking up a bed that could have been let to a lodger.
“The boy,” Mary Ann Cotton said, “is in the way.”
Riley, the welfare worker, had no space to accommodate Cotton’s son. When the child died six days later, Riley approached the police, telling them the boy had been in perfect health the week before. A rushed post-mortem examination was performed before the hearing, but the town doctor found no evidence of foul play. The body was buried in a pauper’s grave.
The doctor, however, had kept the contents of the boy’s stomach, and when he found time to do a proper chemical analysis, he found distinct traces of arsenic. Widow Cotton was arrested the next morning.
Riley was still suspicious. There had, in fact, been four deaths in the two years where the former nurse had been living. Her late husband, coal-miner Frederick Cotton, had died from ‘gastric fever' in September 1871, just two days after the couples' first wedding anniversary. Between March and April the next year, Cotton's ten-year-old son, her 14-month-old infant, and Joseph Nattrass, her former lover, all died under her roof. The three bodies were exhumed, and traces of arsenic were found in all of them.
Newspaper journalists began taking a closer look at the life of Mary Ann Cotton and discovered a horrifying history of an outwardly kind, maternal woman—and devout Methodist—who spread
death around her like the plague. At twenty, in Devon, she married a labourer called Mowbray. Together they had five children. Three more children were to be born and to die. Soon Mowbray followed suit.
Her next husband, an engineer, called Wood, died in 1866, only fourteen months after the wedding.
Mary Ann then moved into widower James Robinson’s house—as a housekeeper—and soon became pregnant by him, and the pair were married. His three children, of course, didn’t stand a chance. Marching to their small graves in quick succession were Robinson’s son, ten months old. Another son, six years old, followed by his sister. Mary Ann’s biological children didn’t fare any better. Nine-year-old Isabella Mowbray lost her life, and so did one of her days-old daughters by Robinson.
The marriage broke up, leaving Robinson—somewhat surprisingly—alive, after his nifty refusal to take out life insurance. Mary Ann moved on to take care of her sickly mother, and within nine days, she was dead.
Mary met her next unlucky lover through his sister. The bigamous marriage was marred only slightly by the sister's death but left the couple sixty pounds richer.
Altogether, twenty-one people—that we know of—lost their lives in less than twenty years. Mary Ann had given birth to eleven children, but only one—a girl she gave away—survived. The court could only charge her for the murder of her step-son, Charles, whose life was insured for eight pounds. She was hanged on March 24th, 1873, at the Durham scaffold. The children sang her song for years afterwards, while skipping rope: “Mary Ann Cotton, she’s dead and rotten.”
MARIE LAFARGE
FRANCE, 1840
The 1840 case of Marie Lafarge was one of the most popular arsenic-poisoning stories in 19th century Europe.
Marie, a raven-haired beauty, was 24 years old. She was a French aristocrat orphan who was forced into marriage with a duplicitous Charles Defarge, an older man who had painted himself as a successful businessman and the owner of a beautiful chateau. Once married, Marie discovered that Charles was, in fact, bankrupt, and the castle was run-down and rat-infested.