Chapter Ten
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"So, how far have we got?" asked Barnaby as soon as they got back to the station.
"The bottle of wine contains ricin … both Cavour and Gillian drink from it … only Gillian dies," said Jones.
"There you have the nub of the problem," said Barnaby. "Now, if we go back to motives..."
"Number One, Francis Cavour. Gillian threatens to reveal the fact that he is still practising illegally, so he kills her."
"Number Two, Avril Parkhurst," said Tom. "A jealous young lady there. Gillian stands in the way, as she sees it, of her relationship with Cavour."
Ben thought for a minute. "Sir, isn't it obvious that Francis Cavour must have been the intended target? There are many more people who would wish him dead than Gillian."
"For a start, there's Dr Chad Hunt. He is obsessed with putting Cavour behind bars because of his dodgy operations, and perhaps he sees him as a rival in the young-girl-pulling stakes too."
"And there's the bottle of wine that somebody gave him ― if you can believe what he says. And that's a big if, sir."
Tom started pacing up and down the office. "Anybody could have put that bottle of wine by his front door," he said, "expecting him to drink it."
"And how did the ricin get into the bottle in the first place?" asked Ben.
"I must ask Bullard about that," said Tom.
"Do you think Gillian went to Causton to try to find Cavour? Perhaps she called him on her mobile and he went home to meet her."
"The thought had occurred to me." Tom continued pacing up and down. "No, I don't buy it," he said eventually. "Even if she felt ill after drinking the ricin, and even if she somehow thought that Francis could 'cure' her, she was expecting him to return to the guest house."
"Yes, sir, but there's a lot of time unaccounted for. And Mr Cavour is not known for telling the police the truth."
"Indeed," said Tom. "However, he spent some of the time 'comforting' Avril, according to her. If you know what I mean."
"Oh, you mean he had sex with her," said Ben.
"And there's still the question of why Francis Cavour is fit as a fiddle when Gillian is dead. In any case, we shall find out more when we talk to that taxi driver this evening." Tom stopped pacing up and down. "What's the time now?" he asked.
"Four fifteen," said Ben.
"Damn. I said I would meet Joyce at four thirty at the tea-rooms in the High Street."
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Tom found Joyce waiting outside the tea-rooms in the High Street. "Hello, love," he said. "Aren't we going in?"
"No, we're going shopping," said Joyce, "for material samples. You can have tea later."
Tom knew that he had been bamboozled by his wife, but he reluctantly followed her round from shop to shop in Causton. "Can't Amy provide the material?" he asked plaintively as he trudged along behind her.
"Amy runs a fancy-dress clothes shop. She doesn't sell material," said Joyce.
It was nearly five o'clock and Tom was hopeful that some of the shops might close soon, when his mobile buzzed. "Barnaby," he said. There was a long pause. "Are you sure, sir? Thank you very much for telling me." He pocketed his phone and said, "Sorry, Joyce, I've got to go back to the station."
Jones was filling in some forms when Barnaby literally raced in. "Cavour's just called me," he said. "He only just remembered. He thinks he didn't drink from the wine bottle after all. He says that he poured out two glasses, but that Avril called him at that moment and he rushed away."
"So that means..." began Jones.
"...That Gillian drank both glasses, and the rest of the bottle. Then she called a taxi and left."
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Barton Cars occupied a cramped shop-front in Monks Barton Road, squeezed between a betting shop and a newsagent. Behind the counter sat an overweight girl, eating a large bag of chips, which smelt strongly of malt vinegar. She hardly looked up as Tom and Ben came in. "Where to?" she asked in a disinterested voice.
"I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby―"
"And I'm Detective Sergeant Jones," said Ben. "Police," he added firmly.
The girl now gave them her full attention. "Oh, was it you...?" she began.
"That's right," said Ben. "We talked. The driver who picked up a customer from Goodman's Land at one thirty in the morning, Thursday, week before last?"
"Oh, yeah." The girl leaned back in her chair and called out. "Tim! Can you come a minute?" A middle-aged man with receding hair and thick glasses pushed open the door behind the counter. "These gentlemen were asking about your fare from Goodman's Land week before last? In the middle of the night it was, Wednesday night. They're police," she added.
Tim gulped. "Do you mean the young lady who was very ill?" he asked.
"Yes," said Tom instantly. "Where did she go?"
"Somewhere in Causton, wasn't it?" interjected the girl.
"Yes, first of all she said she wanted to go to Causton General Hospital. I could see she wasn't very well."
"And?" Tom asked impatiently.
"But half-way there she changed her mind. Said she wanted to go to Morton Fendle instead."
"Did she give an address?"
"No, but I reckon it was where she lived. She directed me there. She was sick on the pavement as soon as she got out of my cab. Luckily she did get out first. I don't know if she'd been drinking...".
"Thank you very much," said Tom and both detectives left the premises immediately.
Tom looked at Ben and Ben looked at Tom. "How is that possible?" voiced Ben. "We'll have to talk to Martin Wrigley again."
"We will," said Tom. "But there are one or two things I still do not understand. I need to sleep on it. Shall we say nine o'clock tomorrow morning?"
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Tom was woken at half past one by a phone call.
"It's Francis Cavour," said Chad Hunt down the phone. "He arrived in an ambulance ten minutes ago. He's in a bad way, Inspector. Multiple organ failure, and his breathing is very bad."
"I'll be right over," said Tom.
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Dr Chad Hunt, wearing a white doctor's coat, met Barnaby in the Accident and Emergency department. "He's gone through to surgery now," he said, "but I do not hold out much hope. It looks like ricin poisoning. There's an injection mark near his heart."
"Ricin again," said Tom. "How do you get hold of it, if you happened to want to?"
"From the castor oil plant," said Chad. "The ricin is removed to make castor oil safe, if not palatable."
"Castor oil...," said Barnaby vaguely, thinking hard. "I suppose I can't talk to him―"
"No, Inspector, no chance of that," said Chad. "He'll be in intensive care for some time to come. Best to come back tomorrow morning."
Barnaby left the hospital as if he was in a daze.
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It was a cold but sunny morning and Tom and Ben set out shortly after nine o'clock for Morton Fendle. Martin Wrigley met them at the door of his picturesque cottage. "How kind of you to think of me," he said. "Do come in."
They passed into the diminutive sitting-room, but instead of sitting down, as Jones did, Tom walked into the kitchen and looked around. There were a number of conventional kitchen gadgets on the work surfaces, but what caught Tom's eye was a curious contraption with a rotating handle and a small hopper on top. "What's that, sir?" he asked as Martin was standing behind him.
"It's a manual oil press," he said. "You can make linseed oil with that."
"Or castor oil?" asked Tom. "I noticed you had a very fine castor oil plant in your conservatory on our first visit." He smiled blandly and walked the few paces into the sitting-room. "Tell me, Mr Wrigley, when did your daughter arrive home on Wednesday night? Or should I say very early on Thursday morning?"
"Well ― she didn't come home," said Martin nervously. "She disappeared."
"Oh, come now, Mr Wrigley. She had drunk a whole bottle of wine, laced with ricin. Ricin, as you know very well, is extracted from the castor oil plant. My question is, how did you manage to get it into the bottle that you intended Francis Cavour to drink?"
Martin's weather-beaten face became contorted and he burst into loud sobs, collapsing onto the sofa. "My Gillian," he cried between sobs, "my beautiful daughter!"
"Dead, Mr Wrigley. Perhaps you shouldn't have protected her from the outside world so much." As the bereaved man continued weeping uncontrollably Tom adopted a softer tone. "It must be dreadful," he suggested, "to have that on your conscience." Ben produced a number of paper handkerchiefs which Martin gratefully accepted.
"She took..." he stuttered "...two days to die. It was horrible."
"I can imagine," said Ben.
"She was in terrible pain when she got home. I knew nothing could be done for her then. I did what I could...". He paused while his weeping, now virtually silent, continued for a while. He took a deep breath and said, "I kept her body until last Thursday night. Then I took her to The Queen's Arms, as you know."
"Yes, sir." After a moment, during which Martin composed himself somewhat, Tom asked gently, "Do you have any idea why your daughter chose to come here rather than go to the hospital, as she was so ill?"
"I can guess," said Martin. He looked directly into Tom's eyes and said, "You see, Inspector, she loved me, almost as much as I loved her. She must have known she was dying and wanted to do so in the arms of her father."
There was a short silence during which all three looked down, almost as if they were saying a prayer for Gillian. Then Ben asked, "It may seem trivial, sir ― but did she, by any chance, have a mobile phone on her?"
"Oh, yes, she did ― though I tried to stop her from having one," said Martin. "Too much of the modern world for me. I chucked it in the duckpond." He looked up at Tom. "I think..." he sniffed, "...that you are a very kind man."
"I can be," said Tom. "But murder is murder. And even now, as we speak, your intended victim is going through his death throes. Dr Hunt does not expect him to survive."
"Yes... yes... I see," said Martin, dabbing his eyes. "But he deserved to die. Not my lovely daughter," and he burst out into a wail again.
"I cannot condone any murder," said Tom gently, "however vile the victim is."
"Mr Wrigley," began Ben, as soon as he had quietened down, "can you tell us ― just for the record ― how you got the ricin into the wine bottle?"
"Oh," said Martin half-smiling, "that was easy. I go to the hospital quite often, you see, for blood tests."
"Yes, sir," said Tom.
"The nurses aren't always that careful about leaving syringes lying around at the phlebotomy department. I was sure that one wouldn't be missed."
"And you were sure that Cavour would not notice a tiny pin-prick at the top of the seal," suggested Ben. Martin nodded. "How about this latest incident ― how did you manage to inject Cavour with ricin?"
Martin gave his half-smile again. "When I said I had never met Cavour, that wasn't strictly true," he said. "I knew where he lived alright. So I went up there last night and broke in through one of the downstairs windows. I took a pair of pliers with me, which did for his burglar alarm. Then I crept upstairs and found him asleep, as I hoped he would be. I put a pillow over his face and sat on him so that he wouldn't thrash about too much. I don't know if he recognized me as I escaped, even though I was disguised ― he probably did. It doesn't matter now. He'll soon be in Hell, where he belongs."
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"How's it going?" asked Tom, popping his head round the door of the green room at The Playhouse later that afternoon.
"Dad!" said Cully, who was alone with Joyce, giving her opinion as to the various swatches of material that Joyce had produced, "this is a pleasant surprise."
"That's because my case is over," said Tom happily.
"Who was it?" demanded Joyce. "Oh, come on, Tom, you can't keep it a secret."
"I fear that you may have to look for another leading man," said Tom.
"You don't mean ― it can't be―"
"I'm afraid so. Martin Wrigley."
"But it was his daughter who was killed!" exclaimed Joyce. "Surely he didn't kill his own daughter?"
"He did," said Tom. "By accident. He meant to kill Francis Cavour, but she drank the poison that was intended for him."
"Didn't you say that he was over-protective of his daughter, Mum?" asked Cully.
"Yes, didn't want her to grow up, I think," said Joyce. "At least, that's what Amy said. Where was she found, Tom?"
"In a black bin liner in a refuse collection bin."
"Eeew," said Joyce, shuddering.
"You know, it's quite uncanny," said Cully. "Have you ever heard of Rigoletto, Dad?"
"Heard of it? I've heard it too, several times. Why?"
"Well, Verdi based his opera on the play by Victor Hugo which we're doing now. In the opera Rigoletto, who's over-protective of his daughter, kills her by mistake, after she has been seduced by the Duke of Mantua, who is a frightful Lothario. He meant to kill him, but she dies in his place. And guess where she ends up?"
"Her body is stuffed into a sack," said Tom. "I know the opera, Cully, and can even sing some of the songs from it."
"No, Dad ― don't," said Cully, as her father gave every indication of being about to launch into song.
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