Poison Read online

  Cambridge Murder Mysteries

  Poison

  by Charlot King

  Copyright © Charlot King.

  All rights belong to the author.

  First published 2015.

  Dedication and thanks

  Thanks to Katie, Penny, John, Jo, Lindsay and my father, John, for all your support. To Robin Howlett, who is a supremely talented illustrator. I would especially like to thank my son, for all his encouragement and belief in me. Finally, I wrote this novel while my mother, Cassie, was ill. She has now sadly died. I dedicate this book to her.

  Preface

  If you visit Cambridge, do remember to walk along The Backs, wander along King’s Parade, take in the magnificence of the colleges, and punt out to Grantchester for tea in the orchards. You won’t be disappointed.

  Prologue

  There’s a reason we say ‘mad as a hatter’. In the 1800s, many hatters were poisoned by mercuric nitrate, used to remove fur from animal skin to make hat felt. Poisoning symptoms included tremors, pathological shyness, timidity and erratic behaviour. Some might say a fair price for animal cruelty.

  My hat hits the water, drifting away like a little boat, oblivious to splash and panic. My nemesis, peering over the bridge above, like their plan has come together. Everything’s happening at once. I can’t feel my feet, my hands are stiff, I can taste my chest bleeding, fluid running down inside my torso. My stomach’s burning, I’m vomiting and just emptied my bowels into my trousers. The river’s carrying me away to my death. Is this just a dream? The pain has taken over my brain. I want to sleep... water under Magdalene Bridge is eerie, the dark current moving faster towards Jesus Weir. Everything’s growing fuzzy, like I’m dissolving as the blood runs out of me. Here come the low banks, the poppies, the gardens. Me, a petrified buoy, I watch them as I float by. Oh, Elizabeth Green’s. How could I forget? I can see it. I can see her light on. Oh my god, that’s her. That’s her.

  1. Quiet Monday

  ‘All things are poison, and nothing is without poison; only the dose permits something not to be poisonous.’

  Paracelsus

  It is not so late that only foxes are crossing Cambridge streets, but an echoey Monday nevertheless. Laughter all trickled into drains along with kisses from weekend revelry. The metre wide Corpus gold clock on the corner wall of Bene’t and Trumpington Street ticks erratically, deliberately only accurate once every five minutes; its black chronophage time eater grasping at the seconds as they try to escape its metal claws. Faded glows from the neo-gothic gatehouse porter’s lodge at King’s College cast insignificant shadows towards the Chapel on Kings Parade, standing firm on its own chessboard lawn, defying anyone to take this most important piece in the city. Within arms reach just along a squeezable alley emerald glints exude from ‘The Green Magician’. Aromas of basil, tomatoes and red wine escape up steps, luring naive nostrils down into the dark cavernous hole. Laid out for lovers, poets, accidental tourists, anybody who will sit quietly and part with currency to lazy waiters, still musing over last night’s satellite football results. This small corner of Cambridge is only just still open for business this early in the week.

  At the far end of The Green Magician a man and his dog slurp spaghetti meatballs, sitting opposite one another across a table like an old married couple. In the next alcove photographs litter a wall with faces of bemused looking celebrities, who once took a wrong turn and have now been captured forever in frame, tonight forced to peep down on an elderly lady, busy with a crossword over her tiramisu. Bang in the middle of the gloom at a central table, two fresh-faced kids in a state of virginal romance hog the limelight as they pour sugar in the salt and stuff bread sticks up their nostrils in an attempt to make each other titter at first love ingeniousness; then post everything on their social media sites. Nearer the door, and tucked under the stairs, the shadow of a woman leans heavily over a table grabbing at the face of a man she tries to kiss. Edward Wiley maintains an air of dignity only a Don might, leans backwards, an eyebrow raised. An odd pairing, him with his sleek chiselled good looks and calm decorum, and her, pug heavy fattened skin, ruby wine moustache and odour of desperation. The elderly lady on the table adjacent peers at Edward as he brushes under his plate wiping away crumbs, and beckons his date to sit down.

  “Really, cease this darling.” Edward’s mellow evocative tone reveals a charmed background, mirrored by the first gentle crows feet around kind eyes. Edward rubs at his nose and runs his tongue across his front teeth. Susan Bunt replies a little too loudly.

  “You used to friggin’ want to. You’re no fun anymore. Come on.” Her words cutting into his ears like pins in a cushion as she implores him to let her nuzzle. But Edward holds her gaze, causing her to return to her seat, and with an ease which takes the sting out of it, his words drift effortlessly across the table.

  “Come off it poppet, I still want to, always,” breaking a smile, “I just couldn’t possibly risk it in here. I mean, gracious, you know I’m not one for public sharing of bodily fluids, and all that jazz. I’m also beginning to feel a little off colour tonight.”

  “Behind doors, curtains, locked key, and no lights on these days,” Susan retorts huffily, “I haven’t seen you in ages. You know you’ve been away too long on that bloody field trip.” She takes a big gulp of wine. “You’ve hardly eaten anything. This was supposed to be a romantic dinner.”

  Edward rubs his nose again and sniffs.

  “My chest’s a bit tight, maybe a cold. Be better tomorrow, probably caught a bug from the flight home. You know what the air is like in the cabin. Another reason not to go near you. You don’t want to catch anything. And please don’t drink so much.” He grimaces a little in pain, perhaps indigestion. Edward picks out from his pocket a packet tied up with a bow, and hands it to Susan. Opening it she gasps at a bright red and black necklace.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I saw them and thought of you. Here.”

  Edward helps Susan tie the clasp of the necklace around her neck.

  “It looks lovely, Suse. But not as lovely as you.”

  Edward reaches into his coat and brings out another present. This time unwrapped. It is a small wooden face mask, grimacing with a tongue lolling to one side.

  “Supposed to ward off evil spirits.”

  Susan pulls an ‘Oh my’ face, a little unsure about this second generous offering, but still with hope for the evening. Edward reaches again into his pocket, this time pulling out a wallet.

  “You can’t be leaving already?”

  “You know what I want. But I have to talk to Rebecca, if you haven’t forgotten that minor detail. I only saw her briefly this morning before I went to the department. I’ll call you, I promise. I need to lie down now. I’m exhausted.”

  Susan leans back in her chair and scowls at the ceiling.

  “You’d rather be with her?”

  “Believe me, though I’m relieved to be back, my family are the last people I’d like to be spending time with right now.”

  As Susan slumps forward, putting her head in her hands and exhaling loudly, Edward calmly puts money on the table and gets up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He shakes a grey duffel coat over his shoulders, checking his watch, puts on his fedora and makes one final plea to Susan.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t we leave it until then? Oh, and do wear something more cheery. That cloak has something of the night about it.” Edward looks at her cloak, draped over the back of her chair.

  Tipsy and rather melancholy, Susan Bunt lifts her head and watches Edward climb the stairs out of the basement restaurant.

  “That’s it. Go on, desert me. Run back to wifey.” Sh
e curses up at him, immediately angry at herself for her caustic tone.

  “Goodnight Susan. Don’t be cross. Get home safe. We’ll talk in the morning. I promise it will be better tomorrow. I’m going to sort this.”

  Any impartial observer couldn’t miss the whiff of rejection, the lingering rosy Merlot being the only kiss of departure on Susan’s lips. What is Edward doing, going back to that waif? Running the whole thing through her mind, brushing tears from her clammy cheeks she imagines every detail of her abandonment. It almost comes spewing out of her. Edward can be so callous, so cold, so bloody English. She hates him. Hates him for rejecting her again tonight. He’s never going to leave his wife. Never. How could he have promised before he went away and got her hopes up? That was cruel. She was not going to have it, that was the end of it. She was going to sort him out. Susan gets up, swaying a little as she puts on her cloak, and leaves more determined than ever.

  ✧

  Less than a mile away, an Edwardian house backing onto the River Cam named ‘Fox’s Haven’ enjoys the silence of its only occupant. Wearing a man’s midnight blue fine cotton cardigan over a cream loose linen dress with artisan pockets, fifty something Elizabeth Green pushes her dinner around delicate porcelain. Much too late for any digestive routine, Elizabeth’s stomach aches with emptiness, yet nourishment is too hard to swallow. Elizabeth looks at her copy of ‘Much Obliged Jeeves’. Even Wodehouse can’t bring her cheer tonight.

  A grandfather clock ticks over family photographs standing to attention on the sideboard in this elegant and stylish home; smiling faces, in mist on mountain peaks, under blue sky at seaside landscapes, on snow covered walks with ruddy cheeks, standing in front of cars at classic motor gatherings, revealing Elizabeth Green’s life to anyone who cares to glance. In one picture, her tiny bones with slightly pulled up shoulders - giving the impression of an anxious person when in fact it is just the result of congenital poor posture - lean into a very tall man. Her big brown curls squashed up against his shoulders. Elizabeth stares at the photograph and slowly picks it up. Her sweet pixie face, intelligent yet vulnerable green eyes, completely masking her sharp tongue and short attention span for fools. She stares at her husband’s strong jaw, mop of straw hair and focuses on the tiny glint the camera has caught in his right eye, his crooked smile exposing irregular teeth, as well as his double chins. He is perfect, was perfect, and now he’s gone, taken in his late prime, before he got a chance to enjoy more time with Elizabeth. She knows she’s now lost the best side of herself, the side only he saw. Such thoughts haunt her. Clasping the photograph she stops breathing, her emptiness pervasive, the pointlessness of continuing reverberating. Outside the frame Elizabeth feels time frozen in her veins. Knows she can’t tell anyone how she feels, it isn’t like her to burden anyone. She just moves from one thing to another, using this to try to get through that. Maintaining a positive outward front at all times, just brought up that way. But she can’t ever let herself feel love again, for when the loss comes it is just too much. It spills out only when she talks to Gerald, even though he doesn’t answer back. Both of them made a pact that whoever died first, they’d send a sign to the one remaining, who was to use all five senses to be alert for such a message. But there have been no signs. She puts the frame back on the sideboard and listens to the silence. Would anyone notice if she were gone? Elizabeth’s face is etched with fine lines from a life she didn’t choose, haunted by happier memories.

  Bertie returns from somewhere, and stands for a moment by the door. He moves a little, maybe five feet to the lit fire where he pauses again, sits and cleans his chest, with one eye on Elizabeth sitting at the table. He knows her face like the creases in his paw. Her cheeks, once full have lost a little lustre. Her lacquered curls a little more dishevelled. Her smile not making such a regular appearance. But Elizabeth’s eyes still adore him. Bertie walks over and brushes his leg against hers. Tears spike as she leans down to stroke his soft fur. Her fingers sweep through the hairs which brush her skin like a hundred kisses. Elizabeth booms at Bertie.

  “Bertie. Muddy paws on my rug. What shall we do? Digging up my flowers isn’t gentlemanly either. We need to have a little chat about that at some point. Let’s book an appointment in the diary shall we?”

  Elizabeth picks up Bertie and gives him the biggest hug. Bertie obliges and lays still in her arms.

  2. River Cam

  Susan flicks up her floppy hood, cloaking herself in black velvet as she clumps across cobbles heading away from The Green Magician and down King’s Parade towards Trinity College, boiling at Edward’s decision to return to his wife. A couple of late opening cafes reflect silhouettes of people nursing nightcaps. Teddy bears in brightly lit shop windows, eagerly wait for tourists to return in the morning. Susan scowls past a handsome young man ambling back to his digs after discussions on Plato and Aristotle at a Fellow’s rooms. A beautiful couple snuggle into each other as they giggle, beaming at Susan seemingly just to rub her nose in it as they walk by. Susan’s temperature rises, grinding her teeth her footsteps grow more determined to have it out with Edward if she can just catch up with him. A fit looking man on a bicycle in black leggings and purple racing vest glides past St Mary’s Church on the Parade towards Susan, then slows down and starts to circle her. Susan watches him, and for a moment thinks perhaps she knows his face? But in no time, and with exaggerated gesture, he points and glares at Susan, while cycling towards her at increasing speed. Putting her hand to her face, and just when she thinks she should scream, an elderly man steps out from round the corner of St Mary’s Street disturbing the cyclist, who whizzes past and cycles off. Hairs prickle down Susan’s spine, the gentleman smiles, lifts his hat and is immediately gone. All of a sudden no one else is about and Susan feels completely sober. Left wondering about the altercation she heads towards the river.

  Having left a little time ahead of Susan so as not to be spotted together, and now some way from the cafe, Edward walks along Trinity Street, enclosed by looming walls of darkened college brick. Cutting a fine figure in his fitted spring duffel, his chinos brush against chestnut leather brogues squeaking slightly from their newness, his footsteps echo on the walls around him. Edward’s eyes sparkle in the inky night, his golden skin with tinges of sunburn picked out by each streetlight under the brim of his hat. Air flows through his nostrils, clean and fresh. But it hurts his chest, and a strong pain rushes up his throat. He uncontrollably vomits into the side of the wall, causing him to pause with surprise and more pain. He knows is it summer here but he feels shivers now back from his trip and all that equatorial heat, he thinks perhaps he has flu after all. A window of the oldest bookshop in all of England lights up an 1859 first edition of Darwin’s ‘Origin of the Species’, inviting passers by to reflect on the impressive shift such a small tome had on their understanding of their place in the world. Edward doesn’t notice, he’s just heaved up again. He heads down Garret Hostel Lane to cross the River Cam, mulling over the evening’s proceedings. Despite the friction with Susan, his increasingly poor stomach and painful lungs, he feels relieved to be back in England. He likes England very much, it is his favourite place in the world. With the summer stretching ahead of him, and students soon all gone down after examinations, Cambridge will be quiet and he can finish his research in peace, enjoy barmy nights the city brings, and spend time with those close to him. He’ll see Susan again after he’s spoken to his wife, Rebecca, in the morning. Susan has to learn that she can’t just snap her fingers. He loves her madly, yes. But she rejected him when they were both young, and now she wants him to end it with his wife immediately? Not asking for much, yet he loves being in love, he can’t deny it. He wants to shout it from the roof tops. It’s like something he’s been waiting for all his life, and now he’s found it. And what with the great news too. It’s all so exciting and scary. He just hadn’t felt like staying with her tonight, he is feeling really ropey, perhaps seriously jet-lagged and needs his
bed, perhaps he’s going to be sick again and his chest feels full of fluid. Edward throws up against a wall, and looks at the blood in the mucus on the stones. He staggers on, wishing he had taken the straight route back to King’s front Gate, instead of choosing the longer route to come round The Backs, so as to look like he’d returned from his department rather than his lover.

  ✧

  Elizabeth leaves Bertie on the table licking her plate clean of juices, and walks across the room to where a grand piano stands by French windows wide open to the night. Ready to be played its keys shine with polish and love. She lifts the lid on an old teak stool, immediately releasing a redolence of worn, loved old books, containing memories to transport her away. Pulling out her choice she then sits, pulling up long sleeves of the badly fitting man’s cardigan and begins to play ‘Cheek to Cheek’, by Irvin Berlin. Closing her eyes, there in front of her is Sir Gerald Green, his rough roguish smile, his bellowing laugh which makes his belly wobble. Together with her he sits on a picnic blanket by the River Cam at Fen Ditton, and points out swallows up on the warm drifts and creates imaginary pirate ships from the shapes of small white puffy clouds. Throwing bread for the ducks he quacks back. Silly old fool. He raises his eyebrows as a bee feeds on his jam scone, knowing she would reprimand him should he brush the bee away. She holds a picture of him in her mind, for that moment so real her heart jumps. The summer air catches Elizabeth’s breath and he is gone. She opens her eyes and stops playing, the room now deathly quiet. Gerald’s departure leaving the bitter reality that she has lost the only person who really understood her.

  ✧

  Susan feels uneasy after her encounter with the cyclist moments ago, yet remains cross at Edward. She is going to make him pay for putting her second. He can’t treat her like this! Hurrying through centuries old alleyways between high college walls she takes a short cut to the river, near where she knows Edward will be just ahead of her, sneaking in the back way to college, as if from the department. If she can just catch up and have it out with him. Turning a corner in a narrow passage she stumbles into someone, but doesn’t see their face. In the commotion Susan is grabbed around the neck, she can feel the grubby, sweaty hands tightening. Her body sways, buckling under the knee as her neck is stretched like a saveloy against the wall. In the silvery black air, the alley is deathly quiet, all but the choking croak as Susan is violently pushed down towards the pavement. She begins to pick out tiny brickwork against her face, moss clinging on for dear life between the cracks, trying to make a go of things in this lightless alley. Her eyes bulge as her cheek presses deep into damp stone as if it will be her resting place. But then she feels the constricted arteries in her neck begin to flow, as the grip loosens and the assailant turns and runs. The alley is empty again. There is no one to cry out to, though Susan has no voice left in her. She takes a moment before fear grips her with thoughts of her attacker’s return and she rushes on, her legs carrying her though buckling under each step, while her throat is still gasping for breath. Looking back she checks to see if she is being followed, before disappearing around a corner. Maybe it is time to go home.