Poison Flowers (20 page)

‘Did you ever suspect her?' Willow asked quite sharply. There was a pause.

‘Not of murder,' said Tom with ease. ‘But there was something she was holding on to … something she was ashamed of. But that's a reaction we often get. The most innocent people often find that the presence of police officers makes them remember some peccadillo or other and act guilty. Did you like her?'

‘Yes I did,' said Willow, ‘although there are reasons for her to have resented both her brother and Fernside. Perhaps that was what you sensed. But I mustn't hold you up. Thank you for ringing. Good night, Tom.'

‘Willow …' he was beginning when she cut the connection.

She took herself off to the kitchen to see what Mrs Rusham had left in the fridge. Finding a fresh loaf of granary bread, half a cooked lobster, some Little Gem lettuces and a bowl of mayonnaise, she made herself a sandwich and sat at the kitchen table eating it. The sandwich was so deep that pieces of lobster and blobs of mayonnaise kept escaping as Willow bit into it. As she wiped some mayonnaise off her chin, she thought how easy it was to live alone, and how luxurious.

Even through her satisfaction, she could not forget the person who hid his or her murderous character from the world, carefully plotting to wipe out people who had frustrated him – or her. Willow wondered rather unhappily whether it would be possible to sense the evil in a murderer she met unawares. Regretfully she decided that it probably would not. And yet whenever she thought of the person who had gone to such trouble to poison other people's food and drink she felt an echo of vicious malice.

Suddenly she pushed away the bowl of mayonnaise and got up to fling the rest of the sandwich in the rubbish bin. If she had already met and alerted the murderer by her questions, then her own food might not be safe. Trying to control the first sensations of incipient hysteria, Willow made herself list the various anti-burglar devices she had had installed in the flat. She told herself that she had no need to fear contamination of any food she ate there unless there had been a burglary, but she could not quite get rid of her fear. Eventually she went angrily to bed, determined to stop herself speculating until she had some more solid evidence on which to base her suspicions. She took Marcus Aurelius's
Meditations
to bed with her in the hope that their calm good sense would soothe her.

Having slept badly and dreamed wild dreams of pursuit and flight, Willow woke the following morning in an odd mood of uncharacteristically low self-esteem. Her lack of progress in unmasking the killer was upsetting her. She could not help thinking of the violence she had unleashed against her possessions during her last investigation and the risks she had so lightheartedly accepted when she had involved herself in this one.

Telling herself that the only way to ensure that she was not at risk would be to unmask the murderer for the police, Willow went to bathe and dress. By the time Mrs Rusham let herself in through the front door to start her week's work, Willow was almost too distracted to enjoy her breakfast. But when Mrs Rusham took away the melon skin and substituted a plate of perfectly cooked fishcakes, Willow managed to ignore the notebook of questions that she had put beside her coffee cup.

When she had finished, Willow laid down her knife and fork with a small sigh, and when Mrs Rusham reappeared with a new cup of cappuccino, Willow complimented her with real fervour. Mrs Rusham's usual coolness warmed a fraction.

‘Mr Lawrence-Crescent mentioned last week that you liked fishcakes, Miss Woodruffe,' she said, leaving Willow amazed that her predilection for the humble frozen fish-finger had been so oddly translated, and rather touched at Mrs Rusham's efforts to accommodate her tastes.

When she had got over the unusual sensations and finished her coffee, Willow retreated to the drawing room and sat in one of the French chairs beside the telephone, trying to think of a way to exonerate Caroline completely so that she could be dismissed and Willow could concentrate on her other suspects. The obvious way would be to find out whether she had any cause to resent the doctor who had been killed in Cheltenham, but she could hardly ring up his widow and ask such a question directly.

After some thought, Willow decided to try to kill two birds with one stone and looked up the number for Dr Andrew Salcott's house. Apart from Emma Gnatche, whom she did not want to involve, Salcott was the only person Willow knew who had known Dr Bruterley. Having spoken to Salcott's wife, Willow eventually tracked him down to Dowting's, the big teaching hospital where he worked for part of each week. Reluctant to disturb him in the middle of a ward round or some urgent case, Willow refused the telephonist's offer to ‘bleep him'and left a message asking him to telephone her when he had time.

Almost as soon as she had put the telephone down, the bell rang and she picked up the receiver again, expecting to hear his voice. Instead she heard Caroline's pleasantly deep one inviting her to supper on Thursday.

‘Richard is coming, and Ben and I would both be so pleased if you could come too. Not a formal party like Richard's, but just us and perhaps one other couple for supper in the kitchen.'

‘I'd love to,' said Willow, not sure she liked the implication that she and Richard were ‘a couple'. Caroline gave her address and asked Willow to come as soon after eight as she could manage.

Writing the appointment in her diary, Willow was struck by the fact that Mrs Rusham had never once asked her any questions about the days her employer spent away from the flat. It was partly for the housekeeper's lack of curiosity that Willow so greatly prized her, but it seemed odd all the same.

There was not much that Willow could do to take the investigation any further until she had talked to Andrew Salcott. She had no reason to suspect him, beyond the fact that he knew Jim Bruterley, had had at least tenuous connections with Hampshire Place, was probably neat-fingered (most doctors were) and had access to such things as surgical gloves and the high-precision tools that might help him to adulterate boxes and bottles without leaving a mark. He had also given her the impression that he was an angry man, but that did not add up to much. She decided to ignore the investigation for the moment and go into her writing room and start playing with ideas for her next novel.

The early stages of producing a synopsis for her publishers usually pleased her: it was the last moment of perfect freedom, in which she could invent whatever characters she liked, give them whatever names, disasters, happiness and fulfilment she wanted. Later, once part of the book was written, she became its prisoner, struggling to make what she was writing work consistently within its own limits and often hating it before she was done with it.

On that particular morning, though, the usual light-hearted planning seemed less fun than usual. Whenever she started scribbling notes on a character's appearance or predilections, she found herself thinking of the murderer she was seeking.

The post arrived before Willow could become too bogged down in fruitless speculation and anger with herself. Among the bills and fan letters was a post-card from the London Library, informing Willow that the modern book on poisons that she had reserved had been returned to the library and could be collected at any time within the next fortnight. Unable to sit still any longer, Willow went through to the kitchen, where Mrs Rusham was cooking something that smelled wonderfully of new olive oil and sweet onions, to say:

‘I have to go out for about half an hour. If a Dr Andrew Salcott telephones, could you ask him for a telephone number where I can reach him and the most convenient time for me to ring?'

‘Certainly, Miss Woodruffe,' said Mrs Rusham, not even sounding surprised. Willow whisked herself out of the flat, into a taxi and round to St James's Square. She asked the taxi to wait while she went into the library to collect her book, and then made him drive her home.

Mrs Rusham told her that the only telephone call had been from her editor. Willow thanked her and then went to telephone her publishers. Having dealt with a few small questions on the typescript, the editor then asked Willow how her new book was going.

‘I've hardly done anything yet,' said Willow. ‘I need to let it come to me rather than try to force it.'

‘Good idea,' said Susan Walker. ‘You probably need a bit of a rest, too. What about a holiday?'

‘I don't much like them,' said Willow with a smile in her voice. Having no ‘Cressida Woodruffe' passport, she could hardly go abroad with any of the luxury she could have afforded and so preferred to stay in England. ‘But I've been going out and about a bit,' she said, anxious not to let Susan feel sorry for her. ‘I met a delightful writer the other day: Ben Jonson. Do you know him?'

There was a short silence at the other end of the line and then Susan said:

‘No, but I've heard that he can be difficult.'

Remembering Ben's own account of his anger with an intrusive and insensitive editor, Willow said:

‘No need to find a man's valet for a true character assessment – just ask his editor.'

‘You're absolutely right,' said Susan with a rueful laugh. ‘The nicest people turn out to be dragons in defence of their writing. Anthony Williams has just joined us from Manx and Herman; and he was regaling us with some of the habits of the literati the other day. He used to work with Ben Jonson and had quite a rough time.'

‘How odd. He seemed so gentle,' said Willow. ‘What are the books like?'

‘Never read them,' said Susan. ‘But they're said to be very well written. Anthony was full of admiration for the
books.
Look, Cressida, I've got to go. We've got that wretched weekly meeting. Let's have lunch soon. May I ring you?'

‘Please do,' said Willow and then settled down to read her account of the plant poisons of the world. The book she had just collected was very different from the learned if old-fashioned tome she had already pored over, although it dealt with most of the same poisons. The modern author appeared to have tried small doses of many of them and could describe his symptoms in graphic and often horrifying detail. He also added one or two intriguing snippets of information, such as the fact that various species were immune to poisons that could kill a human: rabbits, snails, slugs, blackbirds and monkeys, for example, could eat quantities of deadly nightshade without ill effects and there was even one beetle,
Halca atropa
, that lived solely on its leaves.

By the time Andrew Salcott did telephone Willow, she was deep in the mysteries of poisons, having learned among other wierdly fascinating things that carrot is fatal to white mice, but as soon as he gave her his name, her mind switched straight back to what she needed to know.

‘I'm doing some research for my next book,' she said, blessing that all-embracing cover story, ‘and I wondered whether I could possibly buy you a drink or a meal and pick your medical brains.'

‘What a splendid idea!' he said. ‘My wife's about to take the children back to school and going on to stay with a … a friend for a week in Shropshire. Why don't we have dinner one night next week?'

‘How very nice,' said Willow. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘For nothing,' said Salcott. ‘You were so good to me on that train I'd planned to ring you up anyway. You just got in ahead of me. We'll have a splendid dinner and you can ask me anything you want.'

‘You are kind,' she said with a coo in her voice. ‘Might I ask you something now that hasn't anything to do with my book? It's a rather odd question.' There was a moment's thoughtful pause before Salcott answered:

‘You can certainly ask. Whether I can tell or not is another matter.'

‘Thank you. It's nothing medical or confidential. Do you remember a scandal at Hampshire Place? I suspect that it may have happened while you were at Michaelson's.'

‘When one of the girls got pregnant?' said Salcott, with a laugh in his rollicking voice. ‘Of course I remember, but why on earth do you want to know about that?'

‘It's a rather private matter,' said Willow feebly. ‘I'm afraid of making unintentional mischief with a … a friend of mine through ignorance. I'm awfully anxious to know who the father was.'

‘Ummm,' he said, stalling as she had feared he might.

‘I gathered, you see,' said Willow as carefully as she could, ‘that it was either poor Dr Bruterley or … well, someone else, if you see what I mean.' There was such a long silence that she eventually added, ‘are you still there?'

‘I don't see what you mean at all,' he said, sounding almost angry. ‘Are you pumping me for information to feed to those disgusting newspapers? I really do think that poor Miranda has had enough to put up with, without ancient scandals …'

‘Good heavens no!' said Willow loudly enough to stop the flow. ‘Can you really think that of me?' She put a lot of injury into her voice.

‘No. I'm sorry,' said Salcott abruptly. ‘If it'll stop any kind of mischief I suppose I ought to agree that it might have been Jim. Probably was, in fact. Does it matter?'

‘Not if it was him,' said Willow reassuringly. ‘I'd heard … well, that … never mind. If it was Bruterley then I can forget it. Who was the girl?'

‘Sarah something,' said Andrew Salcott so readily and with such a kindly note in his deep voice that Willow thought he must have interpreted her incoherent, meaningless words as uncertainty about some man in whom she was romantically interested.

‘Not Caroline Titchmell?' she said, just to make sure. There was a gale of laughter at the other end of the telephone.

‘Spotty Little Titch? Good heavens, no!' said Salcott, obviously quite happy now that he was no longer worried about a scandal involving his old friend. ‘I'd have remembered that. And if it had been her the father certainly wouldn't have been old Jim. He could have had his pick of them all – and probably did – and he wasn't the least interested in Titchmell. He always liked them tall and thin. No, this was a leggy creature with wild blond hair called Sarah. I honestly can't remember her surname. What's Titchmell doing now? I haven't thought of her or heard her name for years.'