Chapter 8: Lab Results

Wednesday Midday

Martin drove the Lexus along the twisting, turning driveway through the dark and silent woods, down the gentle slope, and over the little bridge. He was impatient at having to make the drive again, especially since today the film crew were set up at the high iron gates where the driveway turned off the moor road. Once again he had to wait for a scene to end before he could be waved through. Still, he was mildly intrigued by the poisoning case, whether it was accidental or not.

He followed Mrs. Wenn's Range Rover as the close ranked trees gave way to the blood-red rhododendrons, and the great stone house came into view.

"There it is," said an impressed Penhale, sitting in the passenger seat. "Stately Wenn Manor!"

"Wenn Hall actually," replied Martin, as he parked the Lexus beside the Range Rover in the forecourt.

Mrs. Wenn led the way into the house and they were met in the spacious front hall by her husband. "Oh Michael, you're home," she said. "I didn't expect you so soon." She seemed flustered, Martin noted.

"Finished early in Plymouth, my dear. Just beat you home by about two minutes. Parked in the garage," Wenn said. "Just checked the answer phone messages, Dr. Ellingham, I understand you have my lab results. I didn't expect you to deliver them in person."

"I just happened to stop by the surgery today," Mrs. Wenn said. "The doctor said he needed to talk to you about it, so we decided maybe it was best if he had a look around."

Mr. Wenn looked confused. "Well, is it good news or bad, doctor? Just spill it."

He and Martin sat on a sofa in the front parlour where the film crew had been the other day. Mrs. Wenn hovered nearby. Martin took the folded up fax paper from his jacket pocket and handed it over. "You seem to have ingested a toxic cardiac glycoside known as oleandrin. It comes from the nerium oleander shrub. It's a common ornamental plant, but potentially deadly if eaten. Do you have any idea how that might have happened? Do you have the nerium oleander shrub on the grounds here?"

At that moment, Penhale, who had been gawking at the outside of the manor house wandered in, to Martin's annoyance. "Do you have any known enemies that might want to do you harm?" he chimed in.

"Sorry, what are you talking about?" Mr. Wenn demanded. "Doctor, who is this man?"

"P.C. Joseph Penhale on the case," Penhale replied.

"The police are involved now?" Mr. Wenn said.

"Your wife seems to think there might be something suspicious behind it," Penhale said.

"I don't know, maybe it was all just an accident," said Mrs. Wenn.

"Mr. Wenn, I need to determine if there is oleander growing on your property!" Martin barked. "If you were somehow exposed to it, it might be a general health threat to members of the public who tour your house and grounds, and… er, any others who might be here."

"Well, I don't know the names of all the plants," Mr. Wenn said. "The landscaper is here today in the back garden. He'll know."

He led them out back, where he found the landscaper Mr. Simmons pulling up weeds around the rose bushes. "You're looking for oleander?" the old man said. "Just look around you, it's all oleander right there." He pointed the trowel in his hand to a row of white flowering shrubs that formed a wall of privacy behind a paved area with a small gazebo and a large granite statue of a sphinx. The shrubs gave off an appealing tropical fruity scent.

"That's the deadly poisonous plant?" Mr. Wenn said sceptically. "Those have been there since I was a boy. Smell delightful and never done any harm to anyone. It's not like my dog Bobby or I chewed the flowers or anything."

"Do members of the public come into contact with these plants when you have tours?" Martin asked.

"We don't let the tourists chew the flowers either," Mr. Wenn joked. "But no, the tours don't come back here. This is a private area. I like to have my tea out here in the gazebo most days, spring through autumn, whatever the weather. Speaking of which, care to join us?"

The strange housekeeper had appeared at the French doors with a wheeled cart set with teapot, cups, and a covered dish. "The cook Mrs. Philpotts made fresh scones this morning," she announced.

"Er, I've got to get back to the surgery soon…" Martin started to say, when Penhale interrupted with, "well as long as you're sitting down to it anyway, I do have some follow up questions for the case."

Martin checked his mobile impatiently. No signal. "We're in a bit of a dead spot out here," Mr. Wenn said, observing him. "You have to go up to the upper floors to get a strong signal, or walk up one of the hills on the estate. It's a nuisance but we mostly just rely on the landline."

Mr. Wenn uncovered the dish, which contained the scones, plus butter, jam, and a small tub of clotted cream. Martin sat down with the others but scowled at the unhealthy treats.

"So, any known enemies? Anybody you've had a dispute with? Gambling problems? Do you owe money to any shady characters that you can't pay back?" Penhale inquired, helping himself to a scone and flipping open his notebook.

"Of course not! My family has been here for generations. As long as there's been a Portwenn, there's been Wenns here. We're well known and respected throughout the area," Mr. Wenn replied.

Penhale made some notes. "Any family members who might profit from your untimely demise? Word on the street is you have a brother in town with a failing boat business. Is he the male heir next in line to inherit the ancestral estate?"

"The estate isn't entailed. This isn't Downton Abbey! If something happened to me it would all go to my lovely wife."

"Well yeah, but…" Mrs. Wenn spoke tentatively. "Um, I shouldn't even bring it up."

"Go on," Penhale urged. "You never know what might prove relevant to an investigation." He loaded up the scone with jam and cream and took a big bite.

"It's just that… Rachel, the first Mrs. Wenn, her body wasn't found and she was never legally declared dead. It's only been a year since she disappeared, innit - I mean, you see."

"Why bring that up?" Her husband was dismissive. "Of course she's dead. Her sailboat went down in a big storm."

"I just, you see we were married abroad and Michael never mentioned the legal issue. I only found out when we got here, you know how people like to gossip. And I sometimes think, well, maybe we're not married at all, not really, and people shouldn't even call me Mrs. Wenn!"

She seemed distraught but Martin detected beneath her tears a touch of… something. Annoyance? he wondered.

There was an awkward pause. From the corner of his eye, Martin could see the housekeeper peering at them from the French doors, maybe listening. "Er, Penhale here needs to get to the chemist's for his prescription."

"It can wait, Doc," Penhale said, reaching for another scone.

"Well, I've really got to get back to the surgery. Call me if the symptoms recur," Martin said, rising and walking away. Penhale put a quick dab of butter on the scone and stuffed it into his mouth as he followed.

As they got in the Lexus and prepared to drive away, Penhale remarked "We're quite a team, Doc. A regular Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson."

"Hm." This constable was a moron, Martin thought.

"You've even got some first hand crime fighting experience," Penhale continued. "I heard about the incident at the surgery."

"What are you talking about?" Martin asked, with a sinking feeling he knew exactly what the constable was talking about.

"Theft of rare bird's eggs. International explosives smuggling operation. Conspiracy to commit bank robbery."

"Hm. You must have read the police report."

"Skimmed it. Those reports are always so dry." Penhale sounded as petulant as a child demanding a better bedtime story. "In law enforcement we have to stick to the facts and all, but it must have been exciting. Crazed nutter in a hostage situation. One Irishman, name of Jonathan Crozier, with a zed."

To be continued…