A Deadly Marriage Page 7

  “It must be a bit expensive to install?”

  “That depends on what figures of comparison you use. The initial cost of installation is about thirty per cent more than a herringbone unit. Using this method, though, one man can milk about eighty cows an hour or twice the flow of the herringbone and he avoids most of the pitfalls that result from very rapid milking rates.”

  “One thing’s certain, Mr. Plesence — my father would have given his eye-teeth for something like this! I wish they’d introduce as revolutionary a technique in my job.”

  “Wouldn’t that make life a bit rough for the crooks?”

  “You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

  David smiled. “I’m sure it’s an excellent idea for anyone but the crooks.”

  Shortly afterwards, Cathart left.

  David sat down behind his desk. Cathart was clearly an intelligent man with all the determination in the world. He was certain Cabbot had taken the poison in the whisky or the celery straw, more probably the straw. Yet that was impossible. If Cabbot had been poisoned, it must have been in something he ate or drank before he reached Frogs-feet Hall.

  There had been an edge to Cathart’s questions, an edge that had been obvious despite the other’s urbanity. Surely the detective couldn’t think he had been in any way responsible for Cabbot’s death? Until the telephone call, he hadn’t known of Cabbot’s existence. There must have been some other reason for Cathart’s sharpness.

  Cathart had not been long back in his office when the telephone rang. The caller was the divisional superintendent, wanting to know if there was any further news on the Cabbot case. Cathart said there wasn’t and that he would, of course, telephone through as soon as any news came through. As he replaced the receiver, he sighed. The superintendent was an efficient man and his division was a smart one, but he had one big fault which was that he refused to let people get quietly on with the job. Had there been anything to report, it would have been reported.

  If the Cabbot case was — as seemed almost inevitable — a murder case, then the heat would be on. To the public, if not to the penologist, murder was a crime apart, infinitely more wicked than any other. Because of this, such cases were reported in great detail and they frequently became headline news. When this happened the investigating detective in charge was willy-nilly in the limelight. If he solved the case and the murderer was convicted neatly and without trouble, he received some praise: if he failed, his failure was very public and there was a black mark against his name which so often meant there was no chance of further promotion. Cathart shrugged his shoulders. Such thoughts as these needn’t worry him. If it was murder, he would solve it and the trial would go smoothly.

  The telephone rang again. The civilian operator said there was a call from London for him. He held the receiver to his ear with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. Jean was forever telling him he smoked too much and would end up with cancer of the lungs, but he had seen so many forms of violent death that could overwhelm the human body, it just didn’t seem worth the effort to guard against one specific one.

  The telephone crackled into life. “Hallo. Is that Detective Inspector Gathart?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’ve got the result of our analyses.”

  Cathart pulled a pad of paper towards himself. There was a noticeable sense of tension inside him, as always happened when he was about to learn something important in a major case.

  “The samples sent to us contained cicutoxin. We have not yet finished estimating quantities, but I thought you’d like to hear right away.”

  “Thanks a lot. What is this stuff?”

  “A convulsivant poison, obtained from the cicuta virosa, or water hemlock, often called cowbane. It’s one of the most virulent of all vegetable poisons.”

  “How quickly does it work?”

  “Between fifteen minutes and an hour after ingestion, depending on dose taken, what it’s in, the existing contents of the stomach, and so on.”

  “Could it possibly have taken longer than the hour?”

  “I doubt it, judging from the quantity we’re turning up.”

  “How’s the stuff obtained?”

  “From the tuber. You just squeeze the juice out — a do-it-yourself poison kit in any worthwhile pond.”

  “Can you say where this stuff grows and what it looks like when it’s growing?”

  “That’s out of my line.”

  “Many thanks, then.”

  After replacing the receiver, Cathart picked up a pencil and began doodling under the notes he had just taken. The poison began to act between fifteen minutes and one hour after being taken. According to the P.M., the dead man had not eaten or drunk anything other than the whisky and the cocktail straw for at least three hours. Cabbot, then, had been poisoned at Plesence’s house.

  What would he, Cathart, do if he were married to a woman he hated and there was another woman whom he loved? Would he murder his wife if she refused to give him a divorce? It was possible. He ceased doodling. The world wasn’t separated into criminals and non-criminals: a few people were criminals and the rest of the population were not criminals unless and until circumstances forced them to crime. Further than that, crime was a word that had a thousand and one meanings, as any tyro student of morality knew. The rich man who stole a loaf of bread was a thief: the starving man who stole a loaf of bread was...was what?

  He opened the right-hand drawer of his desk and brought out of it a small booklet in which were listed the telephone numbers of experts, in a number of fields, who were willing to assist the police.

  Raydon was curator of Borisham museum and a very keen amateur botanist. Cathart telephoned the museum and had only a short wait before speaking to the other.

  “‘Afternoon, Mr. Raydon. I wondered if you could help us? D’you know much about cicuta virosa?”

  There was a quick, dry chuckle. “I’ve made a note of the expertise! In return let me tell you that it is a stout, much branched, glabrous perennial that grows from tuberous stock. Water Hemlock also presents the kind of enigma that interests me so much — the kind of enigma one finds in the vegetable world. The pipes of Pan were always made from it, yet the plant is literally death. It grows in ditches, pools, fens, anywhere there’s stagnant water. The blossom which comes in the summer is reasonably attractive and is on the same lines as parsley. It’s the roots which contain the poison and the poison content of the juice is highest in spring. They say it tastes like carrot, parsley, or celery, but I’m not going to confirm or deny that observation!”

  “Does the stuff grow in this area?”

  “I know of one colony, but only one. According to the botanical maps, it’s mainly up the east coast, round the border, Cheshire, and across in the northern half of Ireland.”

  “Whereabouts near here?”

  “The range of ponds that was the quarry over at Journeyford.”

  Cathart tapped his fingers on the desk. Journeyford was the next village to Necrington.

  “Have you had a case of poisoning with the stuff?” asked Raydon.

  “Yes, we have.”

  “How long did it take to act?”

  “As far as we can make out, about half an hour. The man was dead three quarters of an hour after that.”

  “Frightening, isn’t it? Yet the really extraordinary thing is that with so many of the natural poisons they offer great benefits if the stuff’s taken in very small doses...Still, I mustn’t ride my favourite hobby-horse and bore you to tears.”

  A short while later, Cathart said good-bye and rang off. He looked at the calendar on the far wall, the picture of which was of a young lady whose charms were being fully exploited. It was now Saturday and Cabbot had died on Monday. The tuber of the water hemlock had had to be pressed to extract the juice and it was just possible the pulp had been thrown into the dustbin — mistakes as elementary as this were made day after day. When were the dustbins emptied in Necrington? He picked up the inte
rnal telephone, dialled the general room, C.I.D., and spoke to the P.C. who was acting as aide to the C.I.D. He told the other to go out to Frogsfeet Hall and search through the dustbins if the council had not emptied them since Monday.

  On Sunday morning, Catalina left the flat at Riverfront Place at a quarter to seven. She felt ghastly. She had not slept well and her head was throbbing to a vicious headache. The previous evening, she had been seized with a fit of frightened remorse and had drunk too much. Then this morning she had been jerked out of sleep at 7 o’clock by the telephone call. The telephone call that had terrified her.

  She had the kind of mind that could adjust facts to suit the needs and then forget that any adjustment had been needed. Yet in the past few days certain things had happened which she could not forget or alter, even though all her actions could easily be justified. She felt haunted.

  She looked up the road for a taxi, but there was none in sight. Borisham was caught up in the calm of an English provincial Sunday morning. She cursed in Spanish, a curse immediately followed by a quick prayer. Nothing had been her fault, yet she was having to suffer most terribly.

  She came to a telephone kiosk, went inside, and telephoned for a taxi. She stepped out on to the pavement and lit a cigarette, whilst longing for a strong gin. Had anyone in the whole world ever been as unlucky as she? Tears welled up into her eyes. She had been born under a million unlucky stars. If only she had not gone on that cruise. She couldn’t now remember the American’s name, the one who had paid for her passage, but he had got really drunk the second night out from New York, had fallen down a flight of stairs, had been knocked unconscious, and on arrival at Kingston, Jamaica, had been taken off to hospital on a stretcher. She had never heard what happened to him. If he hadn’t been such a fool as to get that drunk, she wouldn’t have been landed in the stinking mess she was now in.

  Her mother had always told her that Englishmen didn’t know how to treat women chivalrously. David had pretended he was as wealthy as a Bolivian tin mine owner: then, when he’d successfully blinded her, he’d married her and forced her into a life of poverty. He was a miser. He could have sold his business — if only he’d had a little consideration for her — and they could have escaped to a country where there was sun and the people enjoyed life. Instead of that, he’d made her live in a draughty house, miles out in the godforsaken countryside, with a load of neighbours who were morons. So moronic they liked living in the countryside.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as the taxi, a Morris, arrived. The driver said good morning and leaned across to open the rear door for her. She ignored him and sat back in the seat. His good humour infuriated her.

  They drove through the main streets of south Borisham and out into the countryside. She stared with hatred at the growing crops, the lush grass, the cattle, the sheep, the hops, the orchards. For her, the countryside was a wasteland, a desert of loneliness. She needed the comfort of people around her. That American, on the cruise ship, had been fun. He’d been so rich his only interest in life had been to see how fast he could spend his money. Why hadn’t she stayed in Kingston and nursed him back to health? She could have been in a luxurious penthouse, overlooking Port Royal, looking after the American and capturing his eternal gratitude.

  David had made certain her life was blasted. Once in his power, he’d gone out of his way to humiliate her, to wreck her life. And now look what had happened! Catalina murmured a quick prayer in Spanish, a prayer she had been taught at the small convent school to which she’d been sent.

  David had to help her. He owed it to her. He might be engaged in a miserable liaison with that bitch of a woman, but this was only temporary madness. Patricia was the kind of English woman who rode to hounds and didn’t shave under the arm-pits. No woman of any decency would have let her breasts grow to that size. She had cornered David, but David would free himself and come to succour her, his lawfully wedded wife, Catalina Mary Magdalene.

  David was a very capable man, the kind of man who could sort out any trouble. She felt a strong sense of warmth for him. He had grossly mistreated her, but now he would make amends for all that.

  The taxi reached Frogsfeet Hall, went down the drive, and stopped in the centre of the circular turning point. The driver got out and opened the door for her.

  “That’s ten shillings, Madam,” he said, almost angrily.

  She was not aware that she had been in any way rude to him. She opened her handbag and took out a pound note. “Thank you,” she said, passed the note over, and walked away towards the front door.

  The driver was astonished by the size of the tip. He stared at her with a puzzled expression on his face, briefly thanked her although she was obviously not listening, climbed back into his car and drove off.

  She tried the front door, but it was locked. There was a key in her handbag. She would surprise David. He liked a cup of coffee in bed on a Sunday morning and she would make him one. She would take it up to his bedroom, sit down on the bed, hold his hand and recapture the intimacy of old. Pie really loved her and would do everything in his power to help her. Patricia represented only a temporary insanity, the kind that might affect any husband. A loving wife realised this and made all allowances for it.

  She opened the door, went in, and shut the door behind her with more force than she’d intended, so that there was quite a noise. As she walked across the parquet floored hall, towards the kitchen, she heard someone upstairs and looked up. David was by the banisters.

  “I’m just going to make you some coffee,” she said, in a voice filled with emotion. “Go back to bed and I’ll bring it up to you.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She was shocked by his words and the tone of his voice: he was angry, unwilling to understand. She stared up at him and saw he was wearing the trousers but not the top of the silk pyjamas she had given him the previous Christmas. He looked not only angry but also worried, embarrassed. With a sudden, bitter, sick insight she realised why he’d no welcoming words for her. He had that woman up there with him.

  “What d’you want?” he demanded, more loudly than was necessary.

  She pressed her nails into the palms of her hands. She had come for help, to do no more than ask what was due to her as his wife, and what happened? She found he was betraying her — in her house and perhaps even in her bed.

  Casting aside any self-control, she began to shout at him.

  “Shut up,” he said.

  She ran to the stairs and up them, so quickly that by the time she was at the top she was panting for breath and the sweat was standing out on her forehead and neck. “You’ve got her here. You’ve got that bitch here, haven’t you?”

  “Why d’you come here?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I come into my own home? I’ve as much right as you.”

  “You’ve thrown away any rights.”

  She lunged forward and tried to claw his face. He stepped back and she overbalanced, hitting her hand on the banisters. The pain went up her arm. “You’ve broken my wrist,” she shouted.

  He stared at her, bitter and uncertain.

  “You tried to murder me.” At that moment, she believed he had tried to murder her.

  The door of the first bedroom along the left-hand passage opened and Patricia came out of the room and along to the landing. She was wearing a silk dressing-gown, but obviously nothing else. Her manner was forthright and untroubled. “Good morning, Catalina.”

  Catalina struggled to find the words she wanted to spit out. Desperate, she had come for help — and what did she find? David and his whore had slept together and now the whore was boasting about it. Catalina cursed them in a flood of Spanish, while tears streamed down her face. She had been frightened almost to death and now she was betrayed at the moment she called for help.

  Patricia came forward. “Are you ill?” she asked, staring at Catalina.

  Catalina spat and her spittle hit Patricia on the cheek, to the right
of her nose. It rolled down and fell on to her dressing-gown.

  When David spoke, his voice was high from anger. “Get out, Catalina.”

  “This is my house.”

  “Get out, or, by God!, I’ll throw you out.”

  She had never known he could be so angry. He was trembling slightly, from the tension of trying to keep his self-control and she suddenly realised that if she made one false move, if she said anything more, he might lose that self-control.

  She turned and went down the stairs. The tears rolled down her cheeks and carved paths through her make-up. When she reached the hall floor she stopped and looked back. “I’ll make you pay for this,” she screamed.

  He said nothing and Patricia stood by his side, looking down. Catalina knew her expression was one of triumph.

  Catalina stumbled out of the house. As she stepped into the warm sunshine, she began to curse. She felt sick because of the intensity of her hate.

  CHAPTER VII

  Cathart stood by his car, in the courtyard of the police station. After a couple of minutes, Quenton ran out of the buildings.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Quenton, panting, “the superintendent caught me and wanted to know about the larceny-bytrick case.”

  “O.K.” Cathart got into the car. The superintendent was in the middle of a fit of wanting to know about every case, even though he had a verbal report from the D.I. every week day.

  Quenton sat down in the front passenger seat and clipped on the safety belt.

  “Any joy on those tailors?” asked Cathart, as he backed out of the bay and then went forward on to the road.

  “They’ve given us a list of the stolen clothes, sir, but it’s going to be very difficult to trace them if the villains scrub all the tabs.”

  “They’ll scrub ’em. This lot were professionals.” The road became clear and Cathart drew out. As always, the amount of crime had noticeably increased over the past fortnight. Borisham attracted a large number of summer visitors and because of this the shops greatly increased their stocks. This brought the villains down from London. Worse this year was the failure of the clear-up rate to keep pace with the increase. For some reason which he could not yet pin-point, the C.I.D. were not solving the crimes as they ought to. Soon, the detective superintendent would be pointing this out.