Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

28

VENOM

“Mr Bryant, wait, I’d like a word with you.”

It was late on Wednesday evening when Oswald Finch came running after the young detective, who was backing a black Wolseley out of the half-flooded car park behind Bow Street police station. He had requisitioned the car from the pool in order to visit his aunt in Finchley. She had trouble getting about, so he was taking her a joint of beef. Bryant affected to ignore the pathologist and almost ran over his foot. Exasperated by the obstruction that had placed itself between his vehicle and the exit, Bryant jemmied open the window with the end of a soup spoon set aside for the purpose, and eyed him brightly. “Oh, Oswald, it’s you. They still haven’t fixed this window. What do you want?”

“Mr Bryant, there’s an enormous plant in my office. Your constable told me you put it there.”

“Well, I didn’t personally move it, it’s far too heavy for me to touch, with my back.” Bryant searched about for the handbrake. “I had Atherton bring it up. Do you like it?”

“Well, frankly no, I don’t.” Finch bobbed down to look at him. “It’s six feet tall and blots out all the light, and it smells strange.”

“That’s just a bit of root rot. It’s been sitting in contaminated water, a broken sewage main, I imagine. A house in St Martin’s Lane got bombed out and they were clearing the site. There are insects of some kind living in its soil, I thought you might know what they are. They’ve got a bite rather like a mosquito, brought me up in livid red lumps, some kind of tropical necrosis. I once found something similar in a flat belonging to an Ethiopian student in Tufnell Park. We still don’t know what killed him. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Floral virology’s really not my field, and it’s in the way. I can barely get the door open.” He rocked hesitantly back and forth in front of the automobile as Bryant throttled impatiently.

“I’d keep it open for a few days if you can, Oswald, just until you’re used to the smell. It’s quite overpowering. The buds shed a sort of purple pollen, very sticky, gets everywhere. I knew you’d be fascinated. Don’t get any on your shirt, it seems to burn.”

“Look, I really don’t think – ”

“Jolly good. How are you getting on with the tissue samples from Tanya Capistrania?”

“Er, well, that’s just it. I’ve carried out some more detailed analysis, and I think poison was ingested. In fact I’m sure – ”

“Ingested? That could be anything, couldn’t it? I mean, you can die from having water injected into your spine, or air into your brain or anything. Can’t you be more specific?”

“Well, er, something she ate.”

“You mean the chicken? The chicken sandwich?” Bryant released the handbrake and the car hopped forward.

“It wasn’t chicken. It was quail.”

“I don’t see a difference.”

“Ah, but there is. You remember I got a positive test for coniine. Well, there’s a plant rather like parsley or London rocket in appearance, Conium maculatum, not at all uncommon, springs up on waste ground, especially around bomb sites. Causes the kind of muscular paralysis I described. There’s no real antidote beyond gastric lavage, and only if it’s performed moments after ingestion. It’s a long-recognized poison, most commonly known as hemlock.”

“Hemlock? It supposedly killed Socrates, didn’t it?”

“I really have no idea. The thing is, some birds are immune to the plant. Quail eat the seeds without suffering any damage, but their flesh becomes highly toxic. It’s feasible that the victim just got a bad quail. The perils of a rich diet.”

“Wouldn’t she have experienced symptoms?”

“Yes, any time from half an hour to three hours after consumption, but she might not have recognized them as such. Dancers suffer muscular pain all the time.”

“You’re telling me she may not have been murdered at all, Oswald?”

“That’s right. She may simply have become paralysed, fallen down and been unable to move when the lift started up.”

“Well, thank you, that makes my evening.” Bryant ground the gear lever forward, forcing Finch to jump out of his path. Blithely ignoring the horn blasts from behind, the Wolseley thumped up the kerb in front of the station as Bryant beckoned to his partner. John darted towards the vehicle with a late edition of the Evening News held over his head as Arthur threw open the passenger door.

“John, Runcorn is going to conduct some kind of tension test on that prop globe, isn’t he?” said Bryant, trying to clear the condensation from the windscreen with his sleeve. “Can you run the wire ends under a microscope and check the shear?”

“I’ll do it, but the waiting time for equipment isn’t good. The samples will probably have to go over to Lambeth.” John smiled. “I saw you talking to Mr Finch. He’s very upset about that plant.”

“He works faster when he’s upset about something. I’m annoyed about his chemical theory.”

“You should be pleased to hear about Miss Capistrania,” said May, puzzled. “It may mean we’ve just stumbled upon an unfortunate series of circumstances.”

“Very unfortunate when you consider that her feet managed to turn up in the possession of a chestnut vendor. Who is entirely innocent, by the way. His movements are fully vouched for. If we’re not looking for a murderer, somebody out there must have a pretty black sense of humour.”

“There’s a lot of it about. None of Tanya’s colleagues liked her very much.”

“How much do you have to hate someone to hide their feet? I’ll tell you, John, right now the unit could do with a renewed funding pledge, and we’ll only get that if we find a culprit quickly.”

May peered through the windscreen. “Don’t pull out just yet, there’s a lot of traffic.”

“Well, I don’t believe it,” said Bryant, twisting the wheel hard and stamping on the accelerator to a chorus of screeching tyres, “it’s all too absurd, quails and hemlock and falling planets. The chances of two people undergoing such colourful ends in close proximity is positively Jacobean, and I don’t swallow it for a moment.”

“Strange things happen all the time,” May felt compelled to point out. “Do you have something against the laws of chance?”

“I do, as it happens. I think while we’re under bombardment, all sorts of peculiarities might emerge, just not in this fashion.”

“I say, you’re driving awfully fast without lights. Why are you in such a rush?”

“After I’ve visited my aunt I’m taking Alma out tonight, and I’m running late.”

“Your landlady? You’re taking your landlady out to dinner?” A traffic policeman loomed out of the dark at them, and jumped from harm’s way like a startled hare. Bryant was a terrible driver. His priorities corresponded to none of the ones mentioned in the Highway Code. Nor did his signals, for that matter.

“Nobody mentioned dinner. She happens to consider me companionable.”

“Still, it’s a date. I thought you were working on Miss Wynter.”

“Miss Wynter is already spoken for. Her first love is the theatre. I suspect she enjoys her status as a spinster. Alma knows how to enjoy herself.”

“Don’t tell me you’re planning a night of love.”

“If you’d met her, you’d know you were being disgusting. Alma is religious and respectable. We have a couple of shilling seats for Gone With the Wind. She has an unfathomable obsession with Clark Gable, and can’t find anyone else to go with her.”

“Well, at least you can watch with an easier mind.”

“Far from it,” said Bryant, “I’m going back to the theatre afterwards. They’ll be rehearsing late because the weather’s too bad for bombing. I want to make sure nothing else happens.”

“You mean you want to be there if it does.”

Bryant swerved the vehicle over to the side of the road. Horns honked and tyres screeched in the darkness. “How’s this for you?”

May reluctantly opened the door. “It’s not at all where I’m going but never mind, I’ll get a bus, it’s safer.” He pushed his long legs out into the rain. “Try to have a relaxing evening with Alma. You know where your nearest shelter is?”

“Alma will, she’s very practical. I won’t take anything in, you know, I shall be thinking about severed feet. I daresay you’re off to enjoy yourself with your busty sexpot.”

“Actually, I’m taking a night off to recuperate,” said May. “From what you’ve told me, your landlady sounds most keen. Perhaps you should consider the benefits of matrimony.”

“It seems an awful lot of effort just to get regular sex and someone to wash your socks. I mean, she already washes my socks.”

“Which still leaves the sex. I bet you can’t remember your last time.”

“Oh yes I can,” called Bryant, pulling away from the kerb. “Saturday night.” He indicated left and turned the wheel right. “It could have been perfect, but for one thing.”

“What’s that?” May hopped onto the pavement and squinted through the rain.

“I wasn’t with anyone,” laughed Bryant as he plunged back into the unlit traffic.