Something Wicked (2 page)

‘I don’t really know how to say this. It seems so absurd.’

‘Get it off your chest, man,’ Edward urged him. He wanted to go to the hospital – sit beside Verity and feed her grapes. She hated hospitals and was a bad patient. She would need a lot of support in the coming weeks.

‘Well, the fact of the matter is . . .’ Mr Silver hesitated. ‘You know about murder, don’t you? I mean, you can recognize it?’

‘What an odd question, Silver. I think I’d know if someone’s been murdered or not. It’s very rare, you know – murder.’ Edward suddenly felt uneasy and stopped thinking about Verity. ‘Who’s been murdered?’

‘No one – or rather no one seems to think it might be murder.’

‘Silver – you’re not making any sense. You think there’s been a murder but nobody else thinks so? Is that it?’

‘Three murders.’

‘Three!’ Edward was disbelieving.

‘Three of my patients. No, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill them. James Herold was killed by his bees. Hermione Totteridge was poisoned by the spray she was using to kill her greenfly and Sir Ernest drank flies and died.’

‘There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. Do you think she’ll die?’ The rhyme came unbidden to Edward and he stifled the urge to laugh. ‘Three deaths connected with insects? Is that it?’

‘Well, quite. It sounds absurd, I know, and of course the police refuse to make the connection.’

Edward very much wanted to get away but he had known Eric Silver for almost twenty years and felt he owed it to him to hear him out. ‘You say they were all patients of yours?’

‘Yes, though I had not seen Herold for five years.’

‘Herold? The mountaineer?’

‘That’s right. He was always so sure he would die on a mountainside. That’s what he wanted, so when he was diagnosed with heart disease . . .’

‘I remember reading his obituary. There was something odd about his heart attack, wasn’t there?’

‘He was stung to death.’

‘So that’s what you meant when you said he was killed by his bees! It’s coming back to me. I read a report in the
New Gazette
. He could hardly walk but had somehow got among his hives and the bees swarmed.’ Edward shuddered. ‘They said, with his weak heart, he would have died almost instantaneously.’ He had a thought. ‘You don’t suppose it was suicide? I mean, he might have wanted to end his life and thought this was a way of doing it relatively painlessly. If I had been as active as he was, I wouldn’t want to drag out a miserable existence imprisoned in my armchair.’

He spoke with conviction. He had occasionally wondered what he would do if he were crippled in some way or caught some awful disease. He thought once again of Verity and the urge to go to her was almost overwhelming.

‘That’s what the coroner believed,’ Mr Silver said, ‘but to spare the widow he was able to say it was an accident.’

‘There was no note or anything?’

‘No suicide note but there was an unexplained piece of paper stuffed in his trouser pocket.’

‘Was there something written on it?’

‘Buzz buzz.’

‘Buzz buzz? That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘In his handwriting?’

‘It was in capital letters but his wife was almost certain it wasn’t his writing. It’s difficult to tell with block capitals. It was his pen, though. A Parker he always used. It was beside his body when he was found.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I went to the inquest. He was an old friend.’

‘Where did he live?’

‘Just outside Henley . . . on the river.’

‘And the other two deaths?’

‘I don’t know so much about them. Hermione Totteridge was a well-known botanist . . .’

‘I see. You think it odd she died of . . .?’

‘She was apparently experimenting with a new insecticide.’

‘And Sir Ernest . . .?’

‘Sir Ernest Lowther. I had seen him only a month before he died. He was in fine fettle. He’d had trouble with his blood pressure but he was certainly not contemplating suicide.’

‘General Sir Ernest Lowther. The name’s familiar. He won a VC during the war – a hero of sorts. Was that the man?’

‘Yes, a gallant soldier. I was proud to know him.’

‘And how did he die?’

‘He liked his wine. He was a widower – lived alone. When his housekeeper came to clear up after dinner she found him on the floor. It looked as though he had tried to get out of his chair but had been felled by a heart attack. He had the wine bottle in his hand as though he was looking at it.’

‘Another heart attack! What was it – the wine?’

‘Clos des Mouches. We had actually talked about it when he last came to see me. It’s a Beaune from Joseph Drouhin. He recommended it – said ’33 and ’35 had been vintage years.’

‘
Mouches
– flies! So you think all three deaths involve insects? Did they test the wine to see if it had been poisoned?’

‘Not as far as I know. There was nothing in the paper about it being a suspicious death. It sounds crazy but here’s another thing. All three lived near Henley.’

‘Let me get this straight – Herold was the first to die?’

‘No, Miss Totteridge was the first. Then, a week or so later, General Lowther . . .’

‘Followed by James Herold.’

‘That’s right, but all three within two months. I have written down the details for you.’

Edward looked down the sheet of paper the dentist gave him. It was neat, succinct and to the point. ‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ he murmured. ‘Did Lowther and Hermione Totteridge also have notes in their pockets from our murderer?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t think who to ask. Then, when you telephoned for an appointment, I remembered hearing that you had investigated poor General Craig’s murder a few years back so I thought I’d consult you.’

‘It’s all so far-fetched!’ Verity was trying to sound interested but she was so tired it was hard to concentrate. She was by herself in a light, airy room overlooking Cleveland Street. As a good Communist, she had tried to insist on a public ward but the doctor would not hear of it. ‘Until we know what the matter is we must keep you in isolation. Wouldn’t do to infect the other patients, would it, Miss Browne?’

Edward knew that, in normal circumstances, the doctor’s tone of voice would have grated on her but she had no fight left in her and merely nodded her head meekly.

‘I’m sorry, V. I ought not to bore you. I’ll leave you to get some sleep.’

‘No please, stay with me for a bit.’ She clutched his hand. ‘My stock has definitely gone up having you visit me. Even the doctors treat me with respect and one of the nurses was swooning over you.’

‘What rot!’ It had genuinely never occurred to him that he was becoming quite famous. His photograph appeared in the illustrated papers on a regular basis and his reputation for solving crimes was gradually becoming known to a wider public however much he tried to keep a low profile. People he had never met asked him to pontificate on murder investigations he knew nothing about. The
Daily Mail
had actually asked him to be their crime correspondent, an offer he had indignantly refused. Verity had laughed when he told her and said it was a compliment.

Of course, it was also becoming common knowledge that he and Verity were more than just friends. The engagement was still supposed to be a secret – even his family had not been told officially, though it would be no surprise to Edward’s brother and sister-in-law when it was announced. He had noticed a photographer outside the hospital – a film star was recovering in the Middlesex after a suicide attempt – but the man had recognized him and taken his photograph. He was resigned to reading in the newspapers coy speculation on why he was so often at the bedside of the celebrated foreign correspondent, Miss Verity Browne.

‘I’m so sorry to be such a wet blanket,’ she was saying. ‘I was hoping that next time I was in London we could play at being a courting couple. You could take me to gay parties and show me off to your relatives and we could tell all our friends.’

‘I don’t go to parties and you already know all my relatives,’ he smiled. ‘I’m still waiting to be introduced to yours, by the way.’

‘My father? I do want you to meet him. He’s supposed to be back in England in a couple of weeks.’

‘Does he know about your . . .?’

‘My illness? I got his chambers to telegraph him – he’s in Buenos Aires of all places – but they haven’t heard anything yet.’

‘When will you get the results of the tests?’

‘Soon. Tomorrow, probably. It’s so stupid. I don’t know why I collapsed like that. I just feel so tired. A week or two of rest . . .’

‘I’ve been thinking about that . . .’

‘Mersham?’

‘Not there. I know Connie would love to have you,’ he added hastily, ‘but the castle’s still crawling with children.’ These were Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany. Mersham Castle had become one of the main ‘clearing houses’, as one official had named them, where the children were looked after until families could be found to take them.

Verity had winced to hear him say firmly that Connie would be so delighted to have her. The Duke, she knew, would not be so pleased. He had made it clear to her that he thought she was not good enough for his younger brother. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair on them,’ she said quickly. ‘They’ve got enough on their plate already and since it was my idea to bring the children to Mersham . . .’

‘Gerald loves it. He told me the other day he feels so much happier now that he’s doing something to help and the sound of children’s voices in those big empty rooms . . . well, he said it lifted his spirits no end. Those were his exact words.’

‘Still, if I have what the doctors think I have, I’m infectious . . .’

‘I’ve got a better idea. A friend of mine, Leonard Bladon – we were up at Trinity together – he’s a doctor . . . has a sort of clinic, I suppose you’d call it, but it’s more of a hotel – a place to recuperate for people who aren’t ill enough to be in hospital but who still need a bit of looking after. I thought it might fit the bill.’

‘And you can do a bit of sleuthing when you’re not ministering to me,’ Verity said with a little smile which made his heart turn over.

‘Something like that,’ he agreed.

‘Edward, you’re so sweet, but what if . . . what if I don’t get better? What if the doctors find something . . . something bad? I’m scared.’ Her voice was so low he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘You know what I’m like. I don’t mind rushing about a battlefield. A bit of danger makes me feel alive but to be ill . . . to lie in bed and know . . . or, worse still,
not
know.’

‘V, darling . . .’ Edward fought to find the right words. He knew that she badly needed reassurance but not empty platitudes. ‘We’ll know the worst soon enough. You’re a fighter and if . . . if the doctors say it’s serious, then we’ll fight it together. You’ve got lots of work to do so we can’t have you lying in bed for too long.’ He hastened to distract her. ‘Tell me about what you were up to in Czechoslovakia. I haven’t had a chance to ask what with all this . . .’ he tailed off.

Verity smiled wryly and squeezed his hand. ‘Not much to report, really. Like this – a waiting game. The Czechs mobilized their armed forces when it looked as though Germany was going to invade, as you know, but then nothing happened. The Germans didn’t invade. It seems Hitler’s pursuing a more subtle approach than merely marching across the border as he did in Austria – at least for the moment. I guess he’s testing the reaction of France and Britain to a gradual takeover. If, as seems likely, our government makes no protest, they’ll take over the whole country piecemeal. German civilians are pouring into the Sudetenland and, as they take jobs and businesses, refugees – not only Jews but Czech patriots of all kinds – leave for Prague. The city’s full to the brim of the dispossessed sitting in cafés making one small cup of coffee last a whole afternoon.’

Edward nodded his head. ‘I suspect the great British public isn’t interested in Czechoslovakia. They’d not support the government if they promised to go to the aid of the Czechs.’

‘And the British press won’t kick up a fuss about what Hitler is doing in Europe. We’re so bloody cosy behind our moat. The editor spikes most of my reports and Joe Weaver lets him. But I just know it’s all going to blow up while I’m tied to this bloody bed.’

It was rare to hear Verity swear and it signalled how depressed she was. Before he left the hospital – promising to return early the next day – Edward found the doctor who had examined her. He was a brusque young man – busy, efficient and not unsympathetic but he refused to allay any of his fears.

‘Come back tomorrow, Lord Edward. We’ll have the results of the tests and the X-rays before midday. Then we can decide what to do. One thing I can tell you – it will take a while before Miss Browne recovers her strength. I know mentally she’s not one to give up the struggle but physically she’s at the end of her tether. She’s going to need a lot of looking after.’

‘Answer that, will you, Fenton?’

Edward was stropping his razor – a ritual he enjoyed. He found it made him relax. He owned a safety razor, of course, but the whole business of soaping his face with the shaving brush and the feel of the cold blade against his skin was how he preferred to greet the day. He did not like being interrupted and so it was with irritation that he had heard the insistent ring of the telephone and with surprise bordering on indignation that he now heard Fenton at the bathroom door.

‘It’s Chief Inspector Pride, my lord. I told him you were engaged but he insists on talking to you. He says it’s urgent.’

Edward reluctantly wiped the soap off his face with a towel and pulled on a dressing-gown. He had to admit he was curious. He knew Pride of old but had not seen or talked to him for at least eighteen months. What had suddenly made him telephone at – he glanced at his watch – eight fifteen, before the day could properly be said to have started?

He grabbed the receiver. ‘Pride? Is that you?’ He had a sudden thought that he might want to talk to him about Verity. She was so often at odds with authority but he quickly remembered that, whatever problems she had to face, the police would not be one of them.