A Deadly Marriage Read online

  He braked the car to a halt at the traffic lights. It might be sheer bad luck that was dogging the division at the moment. He and his men were working as hard as they knew how, as was proved by the fact that this was a Sunday morning and he and the others would be at the station all day. But a plea of bad luck never went down well with one’s superiors: they seemed to forget such a thing existed.

  The lights changed to green. He turned left, went along the High Street for a quarter of a mile, over the bridge, and left again into Riverbank Road.

  The river ran through the centre of the town, yet unlike so many it had never been heavily polluted by the town’s effluent. The banks were tree lined, the water was clear, and on a warm, sunny day it offered a rare sense of peace.

  Riverfront Place was a large Victorian house, converted into flats, which had a garden that ran down to the river’s edge. A small cabin cruiser and a couple of skiffs were tied up at the moorings.

  Cathart parked the car in the forecourt. “Nice place to live,” he said, as he stepped out of the car and looked past the house and the sloping lawn to the river.

  “They say it ought to be, sir. The flats are real pricey: something like a thousand a year.”

  “It’s nice to see some people have that sort of money.” Cathart led the way across the forecourt to the front door. There was a small brass plate which had five name holders on it and a button against each name. Mrs. Plesence’s name was not listed, but there was no card in the holder of number 1 flat. He rang the bell, then led the way past the opened door into the hall.

  The door of flat number 1 was opened by Catalina Plesence. She was wearing a dress with a low neckline and a skirt that ended well above her knees. Frozen mutton dressed as spring lamb, thought Cathart. “Good morning, Mrs. Plesence. Might we trouble you for a short while?”

  “You want to speak to me?”

  He noticed the slight difficulty she had in speaking. A second later, he smelled stale whisky. “Yes, we do.”

  “You’d better come in, then.” She opened the door more fully and stepped to one side.

  The sitting-room overlooked the river. It was in an untidy state, with newspapers and magazines lying about in heaps, a mackintosh thrown over the back of an arm-chair, ash-trays overflowing with cigarette stubs, and a number of empty bottles in front of the fireplace. Although the day was so warm, no window's were open.

  “Have a drink?” she asked.

  “Thanks very much,” said Cathart. “I’d like one.”

  “There’s only whisky.”

  “Whisky would be fine.”

  She went over to the small table against the far wall on which was a bottle of whisky, half full, and some glasses. She poured out the whisky, handed the detectives a glass each, said that if they wanted water there was a jug of it somewhere about the place, and then gave herself another drink.

  Cathart sat down in one of the arm-chairs, drank, and wondered how Plesence had put up with this woman for so long? “We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Plesence, but there are still one or two points we need to check. You were present when Mr. Cabbot called at Frogsfeet Hall, but you weren’t living there any longer?”

  “That’s right.” She drank deeply. “I wasn’t living there and d’you want to know why?”

  Cathart said nothing.

  “Because he’d got himself a whore. That’s why.” She finished her drink. She stared at the detective inspector for several seconds, then suddenly began to talk in a high, excited voice. “I begged him to leave her. I swore I’d forget her and forgive him. But he was too deaf to listen. He was deaf to anyone but his sluttish bitch.”

  Cathart noticed the expression on Quenton’s face and was vaguely amused to see that the other was clearly both shocked and intrigued by this woman, who seemed to lack any self-control.

  “I did all I could to help him,” she went on, “but his only answer was to spit in my bed. He lied to me, again and again. He said he was going up to London on business and staying the night, but what he did was to spend the night with her. How could he prefer her to me? How?” And how, thought Cathart.

  “I saw my solicitor and said I couldn’t stand it any longer. The solicitor advised me what to do.”

  “I believe he suggested a divorce?”

  “I told him, no divorce,” she said loudly. “That’s what David wanted. To get rid of me and marry her. But why should I help him to do what he wants? I demanded a judicial separation.”

  “You’ve since changed your mind, though?”

  “I’ll tell you why. I was scared, terrified. He threatened me — me, his wife! He swore he’d make me divorce him. I said I wouldn’t. I went to see him at our house, the house he’d thrown me out of. I tried to be brave, but he was frightening. He swore he’d kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce. He even struck me. He’d have killed me then and there, but the man came and David had to control himself.”

  “Did you by any chance know Cabbot?”

  “How could I?”

  “We have to ask these questions.”

  “I’d never seen him before. We had a drink and David gave me a cocktail straw. After Cabbot had gone, David began to threaten me again, worse than before. I thought he was almost off his head. I fled the house, that’s how terrified I was! D’you understand, I was that terrified.”

  “Thank you for being so frank.”

  “Now I have to live in this flat because David’s a miser and won’t give me a decent allowance. I told my solicitor to get me more money and then...then I heard the news.”

  “Which particular news?”

  “About Cabbot, that he was dead. He’d died just after leaving Frogsfeet Hall and someone told me he’d been poisoned.” She gestured theatrically. “I knew, then.”

  “You knew what, Mrs. Plesence?”

  “I knew that David had tried to kill me.” She stared at the detective inspector to see the effect of her words. An expression of disappointment crossed her face.

  “Have you any proof of this?” asked Cathart.

  “The man’s dead.”

  “But how d’you know the real attempt was at your life?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Cathart ignored the question. “Can we go over some of the events again? You were all in the sitting-room and your husband poured out the drinks. Who offered the celery straws around?”

  “He got the tin out and offered it to me. When I looked in his eyes as he offered it, I knew something terrible was going to happen. It makes me shudder to think about it and I lie awake at night and have nightmares.”

  Cathart wondered if anyone had ever told her that she spoke in contradictions? “Who actually offered the tin of straws to Cabbot?”

  “He did.”

  “You mean your husband? Did you know that according to him it was you who demanded the straws in the first place?”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “He also says it was you who got the tin from the cocktail cabinet and offered it to Cabbot.”

  “That’s another filthy lie. It wasn’t like that. He tried to kill me. not Cabbot. If I’d eaten the straw that Cabbot ate, I’d have died. Madre de Dios! The agony.”

  “What makes you so certain the poison was in the straw?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “We can’t yet be certain,” replied Cathart.

  She shuddered. “I was so terrified. He’d meant to poison me and it was meant to be me who writhed in agony. I saw my solicitor again. Give him the divorce, I said, give him anything he wants just so long as he doesn’t try and kill me again with poison.”

  “Mrs. Plesence, what’s the nearest point to Frogsfeet Hall that water hemlock grows?”

  She spoke shrilly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Water hemlock is a plant.”

  “Why should I know anything about plants?” She got up from the chair and went across the room to refill her glass. “D’you want some more?”

  “No, tha
nks,” replied Cathart.

  She returned to her chair and sat down. She drank quickly.

  “Has your husband often threatened you?” asked Cathart.

  “All the time, since he met his whore. Have you seen her? She’s built like a cow. She has flabby breasts.”

  Cathart looked quickly at Quenton. The detective constable’s expression was now one of disgust. “Did he ever threaten or strike you in front of a witness?” asked Cathart.

  “He’s too clever for that. But didn’t he almost kill me? If I’d had the other straw, I’d’ve died. I’ve been living in a nightmare. I’ve felt the pain of the poison in my stomach, I’ve known what it is to die in agony. He can have his divorce now — anything, if only he’ll leave me alone.” She leaned over the arm of the chair and picked up a packet of cigarettes from the floor. She put a cigarette in her mouth and tried to light a match, but her fingers had suddenly become too clumsy. Cathart stood up, took his lighter from his pocket, flicked it open, and held it for her. He noticed how coarse the skin of her face was.

  She didn’t thank him, but drew greedily on the cigarette. “I long for sympathy,” she said. “I need it. He threw me out of my house, spat in my bed, and then tried to kill me.”

  Cathart nodded at Quenton, who stood up. “Thanks very much for your help,” said Cathart.

  “Aren’t you going to stay?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t.”

  “I’m terrified of him.”

  “I’m sure you don’t need to go on worrying.”

  The two detectives left the flat and went out into the bright sunshine.

  “What a woman!” muttered Quenton.

  “Some bitch, eh? I wonder how he was ever blind enough to get married to her? It’s no wonder he tried to slip her something to ease her on her way.”

  “You think there’s no doubt he did, sir?”

  Cathart shook his head. “There’s plenty of doubt. I was just thinking aloud and putting myself in his shoes.”

  David and Patricia had driven down to the coast. Although most of the coastline had become a dismal ribbon of holiday camps, box-like bungalows, cafes, whelk stalls, and souvenir shops, there were still one or two short stretches where nature had so far survived the onslaught of twentieth century civilisation. Petrel Marsh was one such stretch. It had not, for the past two hundred years, been a marsh but was a small neck of shingle on which were no buildings and off which was no sandy beach and no worthwhile fishing. The currents were too strong for swimming. Few people visited the place. When they parked the car at the end of the single-lane track, they were the only people there.

  They got out of the car. Although it had been calm inland, here a breeze was blowing off the sea, bringing with if the tang of salt water. Seagulls were scavenging along the length of the shingle, while flying around the water’s edge were innumerable dunlin, sanderlings, and ring-plover.

  They sat down on some oil-free shingle. Patricia picked

  up a stone and examined it. “Look at this. What lovely colouring, David.”

  He did not answer.

  She stared directly at him. “You’re not exactly showing overwhelming enthusiasm. Look, David, what’s the matter? Ever since we started out you’ve been in a hell of a mood, miles, miles away. You’re not worrying about what happened this morning, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Why?”

  “It was so degrading for you.”

  “But I promise you I didn’t begin to feel degraded. To tell the truth, I’m afraid at one point I nearly got a fit of the giggles.”

  “The giggles?”

  “I kept thinking of a marvellous Victorian lithograph I once saw, called ‘In flagrante delicto’, in which the woman’s got nothing on and none of the men are gentlemen enough to give her something to wear.” She reached over and took hold of his hand. “David, it didn’t upset me: honestly.”

  “But she was so virulent.”

  “She’s just like a child. The present emotion is always an overwhelming one.”

  He picked up some pebbles and began to throw them at the sea. “Why did she come to the house?”

  “I suppose she wanted to make certain for herself.”

  “She knew all right. I wish to God I hadn’t suggested we spent the night at home.”

  “David, are you suffering a guilt complex?”

  “Me? A what?”

  “I’ve told you the scene didn’t affect me in the slightest, but you keep on and on worrying. Is it because it’s you who thinks you ought to feel degraded?”

  “I...How the hell d’you get round to that?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps I just wanted to shake you out of your mood. Darn it all, David, we’re living in sin and I, for one, find it great fun and I don’t care who knows. Catalina can’t alter that one little jot. So if she wants to make a nuisance of herself, let her. But stop worrying.”

  He gripped her hand more tightly. “Shall I tell you something?”

  “If it’s nice, yes, please.”

  “Before I met you, I used to wonder how in the hell I was going to live through my marriage when she became extra vicious. Now I don’t know how I can live through to the time when we get married.”

  She quickly kissed him. “How long after the divorce is it before we can get married, David?”

  “The solicitor said three months, unless one asks the court to get a move on for special reasons.”

  “What kind of special reasons?”

  “Mainly if the woman’s so pregnant that an earlier marriage would let the child be born legitimate.”

  She laughed. “D’you think we could claim that?”

  “You’re not...”

  “No need to panic. I was just wondering if I could wear a cushion and say the thing’s imminent.”

  “You’re immoral,” he said, laughingly.

  “I know. That accounts for much of my charm.”

  “I love you.”

  She smiled warmly and happily, so that her whole expression became one of love. “I adore you, my darling, just as I adored Michael. There aren’t any words shining enough to describe how I feel, it’s just something so overwhelming that it’s like being drowned.”

  “And presumably you haven’t come up for air for the third time?”

  “I’m not coming up anywhere. I want to stay just as I am.”

  He picked up some pebbles and threw them towards the sea, which was on an incoming tide and slowly moving up a sharply sloping shelf of shingle.

  There was a long silence, which he broke. “Have you seen any more of the police?”

  “Not beyond the one interview I told you all about.”

  “Then you haven’t met the detective inspector?”

  “No. Why d’you ask?”

  “I’d have been interested to hear what you make of him.”

  “What do you?”

  “He struck me as a damned dangerous person: one of those fairly quiet persons, but with an obvious determination that makes you certain that if he once gets his knife into you, he’ll never take it out again.”

  “And you think he’s got his knife into you?”

  “I...I don’t know.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  When he next spoke, his words tacitly admitted he had been lying. “I suppose it’s probably imagination. Catalina’s got me so het up I’m ready to search under every single stone for trouble. But it does look to other people as if Cabbot was poisoned at Frogsfeet, even though that’s impossible. Cabbot only had a whisky and a celery straw. What’s more, why should I try to poison him? I’d never seen the bloke before.”

  “Well, then, no matter what people think at first, they’ll soon learn they’re wrong, won’t they, if they think it was anything to do with you?”

  “I...I hope so.”

  “Give me a cigarette and let’s decide how many children we’re going to have. I’m feeling broody.” She smiled and again her expression was one of
a deep and wonderful warmth.

  In his office, Detective Sergeant Me Watt took his wallet from his coat pocket and opened it. He counted three one pound notes and that was all. He swore. No matter how hard he tried to save money, the stuff just melted away as if of a volatile nature. He wondered how anyone thought that about a thousand a year was a good enough wage for a detective sergeant who had to work all hours of the day and night: he further wondered how the police force ever found mugs like himself to work for so meagre a wage packet?

  The telephone on the desk rang. He answered the call. A man with a very high-pitched voice told him that out of the eight cocktail straws in the tin, three had contained a lethal dose of poison.

  He replaced the receiver and by chance looked down at his wallet which lay on the table. Plesence was a wealthy bastard. He lived in a large house, drove a very expensive car, and could afford to buy his wife all the new clothes she could possibly want. Ironically, because he could, he didn’t. What he wanted was a change of wives. McWatt felt almost pleased that Plesence would soon be very deep in the muck. People as wealthy as he needed a kick in the teeth from time to time to show them that life wasn’t all love and kisses. He ought to have had his eyes open before he married that hag of a wife, not after.

  McWatt stood up. The D.I. wasn’t in so the message must be written out and left on his desk. Cathart demanded many things and all had to be done according to his rule book. He obviously reckoned to make the D.C.I.’s job soon: if he did, there would be a vacancy for a D.I. McWatt reckoned he knew who was going to fill that position.

  He wrote down the gist of the report and then left and went down the corridor to the D.I.’s room. He tucked the sheet of paper in the right-hand comer of the blotter on the D.I.’s desk.