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Authors: David Roberts
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dreadfully.’
She looked so pathetic that Edward put out a hand and laid it over hers.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked. Reluctantly, because he thought she smoked instead of eating, he proffered his cigarette case and she took one. He leant forward and lit it for her and she took a long drag on it. ‘That’s better,’ she said appreciatively. ‘How’s Basil? I was hoping to see him in Albany.’
‘He’s at Mersham. They don’t allow dogs at my place. He lodges with the Hassels when in town. Do you want him back? I hope not. He loves Mersham. Gerald’s rather taken to him. They go on long walks together.’ He saw she wasn’t really listening. She was crumbling a bread roll to pieces with one hand while holding her cigarette in the other. He knew it was pointless but he could not prevent himself saying, ‘You live on your nerves. You smoke too much and eat too little. No wonder you can’t sleep.’
‘Distract me then,’ she said with an effort. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’ve been up to. Mixing with the nobs, I’ll be bound – toadying up to Mr Churchill, I expect.’
Verity had taken a strong dislike to Winston Churchill, whom she had never met, having decided that he was the enemy of the working class. Edward, to her fury, had fallen totally under his thrall and had undertaken a couple of investigations at his bidding.
‘As a matter of fact, I have been mingling with the nobs – as you put it – nothing to do with Mr Churchill though.’ He took a deep breath and began to tell her about meeting Sunny, his visit to Broadlands and the boys’ macabre discovery.
‘Mountbatten, eh?’ He was glad to see that he had her attention. ‘He’s just a playboy, isn’t he? These minor royals . . . well, they’ll be the first to go in the revolution.’
‘I think Mountbatten’s more than that. He’s not a drone. They say he’s a good officer. He’s very ambitious.’
‘Huh! So whose was the body Frank found?’
‘Well, that’s the odd thing. I telephoned the local chap – a man named Inspector Beeston – rather a dunderhead, I fear. I met him when we found the corpse. Anyway, the dead man turns out to have been an artist – a man called Peter Gray. Adrian Hassel knew him. They were at the Slade together though he was older than Adrian – late forties. He had a show at the Goupil Galleries in 1931 which was judged to have been a success.’
‘What was he doing at Broadlands?’
‘That’s what no one knows.’
‘And he died of a heart attack?’
‘That’s what the doctor thought at first but the post-mortem has thrown up a much more exotic cause of death.’
‘Which is . . .?’
‘Ergot poison.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Nor had I but I did a bit of research. Ergot’s a fungus that lives off rye and other grasses. Apparently it has been used as a country recipe since at least the Middle Ages to combat depression, hasten childbirth and, intriguingly, enhance sexual performance.’
Verity laughed and it did Edward good to see her. ‘So, what . . .? He went too far and his love life . . .’
‘V, please, keep your voice down if you’re going to be mucky. It’s more likely that he was prescribed it for depression. He had had a bad war – shell shock. Adrian said that after the war, he was in and out of hospital but gradually seemed to get over it.’
‘So, he was taking ergot and took too much?’
‘The problem with ergot is that it’s not very exact in its effects. It’s quite easy to poison yourself.’
‘What happens? What are the symptoms?’
‘Well, according to the books it can cause gangrene by constricting the blood flow to the extremities – fingers and toes. It’s sometimes called Holy Fire because it feels as if your feet or hands are on fire.’
‘How horrible! But does that necessarily kill you?’
‘It can do but in this chap’s case, according to the doctor who examined the body – they haven’t yet talked to the
She looked so pathetic that Edward put out a hand and laid it over hers.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked. Reluctantly, because he thought she smoked instead of eating, he proffered his cigarette case and she took one. He leant forward and lit it for her and she took a long drag on it. ‘That’s better,’ she said appreciatively. ‘How’s Basil? I was hoping to see him in Albany.’
‘He’s at Mersham. They don’t allow dogs at my place. He lodges with the Hassels when in town. Do you want him back? I hope not. He loves Mersham. Gerald’s rather taken to him. They go on long walks together.’ He saw she wasn’t really listening. She was crumbling a bread roll to pieces with one hand while holding her cigarette in the other. He knew it was pointless but he could not prevent himself saying, ‘You live on your nerves. You smoke too much and eat too little. No wonder you can’t sleep.’
‘Distract me then,’ she said with an effort. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’ve been up to. Mixing with the nobs, I’ll be bound – toadying up to Mr Churchill, I expect.’
Verity had taken a strong dislike to Winston Churchill, whom she had never met, having decided that he was the enemy of the working class. Edward, to her fury, had fallen totally under his thrall and had undertaken a couple of investigations at his bidding.
‘As a matter of fact, I have been mingling with the nobs – as you put it – nothing to do with Mr Churchill though.’ He took a deep breath and began to tell her about meeting Sunny, his visit to Broadlands and the boys’ macabre discovery.
‘Mountbatten, eh?’ He was glad to see that he had her attention. ‘He’s just a playboy, isn’t he? These minor royals . . . well, they’ll be the first to go in the revolution.’
‘I think Mountbatten’s more than that. He’s not a drone. They say he’s a good officer. He’s very ambitious.’
‘Huh! So whose was the body Frank found?’
‘Well, that’s the odd thing. I telephoned the local chap – a man named Inspector Beeston – rather a dunderhead, I fear. I met him when we found the corpse. Anyway, the dead man turns out to have been an artist – a man called Peter Gray. Adrian Hassel knew him. They were at the Slade together though he was older than Adrian – late forties. He had a show at the Goupil Galleries in 1931 which was judged to have been a success.’
‘What was he doing at Broadlands?’
‘That’s what no one knows.’
‘And he died of a heart attack?’
‘That’s what the doctor thought at first but the post-mortem has thrown up a much more exotic cause of death.’
‘Which is . . .?’
‘Ergot poison.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Nor had I but I did a bit of research. Ergot’s a fungus that lives off rye and other grasses. Apparently it has been used as a country recipe since at least the Middle Ages to combat depression, hasten childbirth and, intriguingly, enhance sexual performance.’
Verity laughed and it did Edward good to see her. ‘So, what . . .? He went too far and his love life . . .’
‘V, please, keep your voice down if you’re going to be mucky. It’s more likely that he was prescribed it for depression. He had had a bad war – shell shock. Adrian said that after the war, he was in and out of hospital but gradually seemed to get over it.’
‘So, he was taking ergot and took too much?’
‘The problem with ergot is that it’s not very exact in its effects. It’s quite easy to poison yourself.’
‘What happens? What are the symptoms?’
‘Well, according to the books it can cause gangrene by constricting the blood flow to the extremities – fingers and toes. It’s sometimes called Holy Fire because it feels as if your feet or hands are on fire.’
‘How horrible! But does that necessarily kill you?’
‘It can do but in this chap’s case, according to the doctor who examined the body – they haven’t yet talked to the
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