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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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not a line Marion wanted the conversation to take, implying as it would that she had been left on the shelf. She reverted to her lame ducks and began talking about poor old Mr Hussein, his few sticks of furniture, his single lily and his childlessness. How he had loved the knuckle of ham! Irene interrupted her.
âIâm making this necklace for you, Marion, though I wonder if itâs quite your colour. Would malachite perhaps be better?â
Having no idea what colour malachite was, Marion said, âAnything you made would be delightful, Iâm sure. May I look?â
Irene held out the uncompleted necklace listlessly. âIâm sure I donât know when it will be finished. I canât work when Iâm upset. Youâd better run away now, Marion. Iâve got terrible heartburn or it may be the start of a hiatus hernia.â
âRunning awayâ was something Marion did all the time. It wasnât in her nature to walk or stroll. She went home at breakneck speed, galloping down Chudleigh Hill and along Acol Road to Lithos Road. Though shabby, her flat was neat and pleasantly scented with floral air freshener.
Ireneâs saying she had heartburn reminded her that it was time to check on the morphine. When her mother died a year before, a whole unopened bottle of morphine sulphate had remained among the medicaments, as well as an already opened bottle containing about half the quantity. Like a good citizen, Marion had handed the half-empty bottle and all the remaining phials and jars and packets to the nurse, but since no one asked for it, she kept the unopened bottle. At that time she had considered trying it on Mrs Pringle, convincing herself that âputting her to sleepâ would be a merciful release, a natural peaceful exit. The idea would be for Marion to pour a little on her own-make rhum baba, for instance, or a slice of tarte tatin. She was always taking such delicacies to the house in Fitzjohnâs Avenue. But Mrs Pringle forestalled her and in the course of nature achieved an even more merciful release than Marion had had in mind, leaving behind her that thoughtful will.
On the principle of where do you hide a leaf but in a tree, she first put the morphine in her bedside cabinet. But mistaking it for a dyspepsia remedy about six months later, she was on the point of unsealing it and unscrewing the cap before she remembered. Goodness,she might have killed herself! She took the morphine out and put it in the back of the bathroom cabinet along with items no one would consider consuming, a bottle of hand lotion and some vapour rub among other things. As soon as she got in she checked that it was still there. It was. Of course it was. Who would have moved it?
Well, Fowler might have. Heâd drink anything if he thought it would intoxicate or stimulate him. Once, soon after Mrs Pringle died and sheâd first moved in here, he made his way in while she was out and drank a whole can of silver polish and half a bottle of Lancôme eau de toilette. It wouldnât be easy for him to get in now, not easy even for him since she had had the locks changed. Still, it would be wise to take precautions. She found an adhesive label, one of many neatly stacked in the stationery drawer, wrote
Poison. Not To Be Taken
on it, added
Internally
, and stuck the label on the morphine bottle.
âIt may seem trivial to you,â said Andrew, coming back into Ismayâs bedroom after his shower, âbut I donât actually much like sharing this place with those two. I donât like joining the queue for the bathroom. And most of all I donât like coming back here after being out with you somewhere and finding them sitting on the sofa, then having to get up after half an hour and say, âWell, goodnight. Ismay and I are going to bed now.â
âOh, darling, you canât mean it embarrasses you.â
âNot particularly. What I mean is I want to be allowed a
âIâm making this necklace for you, Marion, though I wonder if itâs quite your colour. Would malachite perhaps be better?â
Having no idea what colour malachite was, Marion said, âAnything you made would be delightful, Iâm sure. May I look?â
Irene held out the uncompleted necklace listlessly. âIâm sure I donât know when it will be finished. I canât work when Iâm upset. Youâd better run away now, Marion. Iâve got terrible heartburn or it may be the start of a hiatus hernia.â
âRunning awayâ was something Marion did all the time. It wasnât in her nature to walk or stroll. She went home at breakneck speed, galloping down Chudleigh Hill and along Acol Road to Lithos Road. Though shabby, her flat was neat and pleasantly scented with floral air freshener.
Ireneâs saying she had heartburn reminded her that it was time to check on the morphine. When her mother died a year before, a whole unopened bottle of morphine sulphate had remained among the medicaments, as well as an already opened bottle containing about half the quantity. Like a good citizen, Marion had handed the half-empty bottle and all the remaining phials and jars and packets to the nurse, but since no one asked for it, she kept the unopened bottle. At that time she had considered trying it on Mrs Pringle, convincing herself that âputting her to sleepâ would be a merciful release, a natural peaceful exit. The idea would be for Marion to pour a little on her own-make rhum baba, for instance, or a slice of tarte tatin. She was always taking such delicacies to the house in Fitzjohnâs Avenue. But Mrs Pringle forestalled her and in the course of nature achieved an even more merciful release than Marion had had in mind, leaving behind her that thoughtful will.
On the principle of where do you hide a leaf but in a tree, she first put the morphine in her bedside cabinet. But mistaking it for a dyspepsia remedy about six months later, she was on the point of unsealing it and unscrewing the cap before she remembered. Goodness,she might have killed herself! She took the morphine out and put it in the back of the bathroom cabinet along with items no one would consider consuming, a bottle of hand lotion and some vapour rub among other things. As soon as she got in she checked that it was still there. It was. Of course it was. Who would have moved it?
Well, Fowler might have. Heâd drink anything if he thought it would intoxicate or stimulate him. Once, soon after Mrs Pringle died and sheâd first moved in here, he made his way in while she was out and drank a whole can of silver polish and half a bottle of Lancôme eau de toilette. It wouldnât be easy for him to get in now, not easy even for him since she had had the locks changed. Still, it would be wise to take precautions. She found an adhesive label, one of many neatly stacked in the stationery drawer, wrote
Poison. Not To Be Taken
on it, added
Internally
, and stuck the label on the morphine bottle.
âIt may seem trivial to you,â said Andrew, coming back into Ismayâs bedroom after his shower, âbut I donât actually much like sharing this place with those two. I donât like joining the queue for the bathroom. And most of all I donât like coming back here after being out with you somewhere and finding them sitting on the sofa, then having to get up after half an hour and say, âWell, goodnight. Ismay and I are going to bed now.â
âOh, darling, you canât mean it embarrasses you.â
âNot particularly. What I mean is I want to be allowed a
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