Cyanide With Compliments Read online

  CYANIDE WITH COMPLIMENTS

  Pollard & Toye Investigations

  Book Five

  Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES

  1

  It must be the light up here, and the utter remoteness, Olivia Strode thought. It’s gone to my head. I feel absolutely on top of the world, metaphorically as well as literally…

  The Moreton-Blakes had insisted on her having the window seat. They were flying out to Venice together on the first stage of a cruising holiday, and it was her first journey by air. She glanced round at them. Professor Charles Moreton-Blake was making short work of the Times crossword. Molly, his wife, was leaning back composedly with her eyes closed, spruce as usual with her curly silver hair and complexion pink and fresh as a girl’s. Olivia reflected that air travel must be a commonplace to them. They had even flown to the States by the Polar route.

  There was a slight vibration, and the pulsating roar of the engines changed almost imperceptibly. Far below the gleaming white knife-edges of the Alps had vanished and the descent to Venice had started. The air hostesses were passing swiftly up and down the gangway removing the last traces of lunch. People hitherto invisible began to reveal their presence behind the high backs of the seats. Olivia’s qualms about the enforced intimacies of life on board a cruise ship suddenly returned in force.

  Molly Moreton-Blake opened her eyes and sat up. ‘We’ve started to lose height,’ she said. ‘Quick, Olivia, the loo, before there’s a queue the length of the plane. Let us out first, Charles. Heavens,’ she added as they struggled to their feet, ‘how they do jam you up on these charter flights.’

  By the time they had manoeuvred themselves back into their places the ground plan of the Lombardy Plain had filled in. Now there was not merely a framework but activities going on within it. A thin brown and yellow caterpillar of a train lay apparently motionless along a straight railway track. Minute cars gyrated in endless succession at a big roundabout. Instead of uniform olive greenness there was a variegated pattern of cultivation. An untidy urban sprawl came into view, flinging out tentacles of growth. A sudden crackle from a loudspeaker broke in on Olivia’s fascinated contemplation.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a feminine voice with the perfunctory courtesy of a routine announcement, ‘in a few minutes we shall be landing at Marco Polo airport, Venice. Please fasten your seat belts and extinguish all cigarettes. After the aircraft has touched down kindly remain seated until…’

  Olivia wrestled with her safety belt. Then, at an exclamation from Molly Moreton-Blake, she glanced down quickly and saw Venice, a handful of jewels scattered on glass … the great mass of the Salute, the sweep of the Grand Canal flanked by its palaces, the clustered domes of St Mark’s white in the sunlight, campanili shooting skywards like arrows. How incredibly shallow the lagoon was, its film of water scored by the acute-angled washes of little boats…

  The transition from delight to nightmare was too swift to register. As horizontality and verticality suddenly ceased to have significance her heart gave a huge painful leap… The lagoon was a wall of water. The Salute swept up and vanished like a leaf in a storm, and campanili were levelled gun barrels. It flashed through her mind that a crash was imminent, and this was a premonition of survival in a non-spatial context. Then the aircraft which had banked on coming in to land flattened out over the anti-climax of grass and runways. Olivia, simultaneously relieved, ashamed and amused at herself, was thankful to see that Molly Moreton-Blake was absorbed in the contents of her handbag and would have missed any obvious sign of panic.

  Now the airfield was flowing past at a more decorous rate. There was a small impact, an abrupt slackening of speed and at last, a halt. Conversation and people burst out on all sides, and there was frantic groping for hand baggage in the overhead racks. Charles Moreton-Blake whisked down his party’s coats.

  ‘Rear door,’ he said, leading the way.

  It was odd how, in the moment of landing, the comforting security of the aircraft was metamorphosed into claustrophobic imprisonment. The wait to be released was almost unbearable. At last the doors were opened and the steps wheeled into position. A slow forward shuffle began, and Olivia emerged into Italian sunshine to be greeted by a vista of tarmac, petrol tankers and a control tower of sinister space-age aspect. Domes, campanili and shining water had vanished like a dream. Glancing behind her she saw the Trident as a huge elongated egg prolifically hatching humanity.

  ‘Feeling let down?’ asked Charles Moreton-Blake, as they waited their turn at the passport control. ‘It’s preposterous arriving this way, of course. One needs the sea approach to be tuned in properly.’

  After the formalities the cruise passengers were directed to the motor launches waiting to take them to the air terminal, and an afternoon of sight-seeing in Venice before embarkation. As soon as they were settled, Molly produced a map.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Olivia, ‘with any luck they’ll take us through here and down the Grand Canal. My choice every time, whatever Charles says.’

  ‘Otherwise we go round by the lagoon?’

  ‘That’s it. You’ve done your homework, I see.’

  It was extremely pleasant to have arrived, and to sit relaxed in the sun with a holiday ahead. Olivia watched the launch filling up. The not-so-young predominated. An obviously academic couple were avoiding involvement. The man sat smoking a pipe, gazing straight ahead, while the woman immersed herself in a book with a Greek temple on the jacket. Two American couples, travelling together and hung around with photographic equipment, earnestly discussed their afternoon’s programme.

  ‘Soon as we’ve dahked, we head for Saint Mark’s Square, then,’ said one of the men, a serious type with rimless spectacles. ‘That’s sure OK by me.’

  ‘I don’t dispute for a moment that the Carpaccios in the Scuola di San Giorgio are his only cycle in situ,’ a high cultured voice was saying, ‘but should we cut out the Accademia altogether?’

  ‘If we don’t waste time hanging about here in the usual tiresome way, surely we can manage both. I suggest…’

  Englishwomen Abroad, Olivia thought delightedly, observing sensible shoes, tweed suits and walking-sticks. I thought the type was extinct…

  ‘… room for three people together here, surely?’

  The speaker, an excitable well-dressed woman in late middle-age, was accompanied by a young couple, obviously embarrassed by the fuss she was making. Passengers already seated remained elaborately detached. Finally the two women found seats together, and the young man, addressed as Keith, came aft to a vacant seat near Olivia. To her relief he made no attempt to start a conversation. Although moderately long-haired he was at least clean in person, with a rather full heavy face. He looked intelligent, she thought.

  The engine which had up to now been idling suddenly roared into life, and they were off at last.

  ‘It is the Grand Canal,’ Molly Moreton-Blake exclaimed triumphantly a few minutes later.

  Olivia gazed enchanted at the panorama of sky and sea, and the scatter of small islands apparently floating on the water with campanili for masts. In spite of the bright sunshine the world was bathed in a softly muted light tinted with aquamarine and gold. Ahead the preposterous rickety skyline of the city added a final touch of fantasy.

  ‘Murano,’ Charles indicated with a wave, his thatch of white hair ruffled in the breeze a
s he resumed his seat after taking a photograph. ‘Here and now I state categorically that I will not, repeat, not go over a glass factory when we’re back here at the end of the cruise.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to, darling,’ Molly replied soothingly.

  ‘I’m allergic to factories,’ Olivia assured him. ‘I always dodge the WI visits to them at home.’

  Charles Moreton-Blake saluted her with a characteristic lift of his hand. For twelve years after her husband’s death, and for the purpose of giving her son David the best possible education, she had been the distinguished historian’s secretary, a professional relationship which had developed into a lasting friendship with his wife and himself. He had fired her with some of his own enthusiasms, and once David was launched she had retired to her cottage in the West Country, and become something of an authority on local history under his encouragement and guidance.

  The volume of conversation in the launch was rising steadily. As they approached the white marble and cypress forest of the cemetery island of San Michele one of the American party read aloud macabre details from a guide book. His companions looked scandalized, and words such as ‘prahblem’ and ‘cremation’ floated aft. The Englishwomen Abroad exchanged pitying glances with raised eyebrows, and continued their discussion of Carpaccio’s use of colour. The fussy woman had become tiresomely vivacious, and was making it clear to everyone within earshot that this was her third visit to Venice. As the launch nosed its way out into the Grand Canal she embarked on a running commentary.

  ‘Why doesn’t someone chuck her overboard?’ Charles demanded as they passed under the Rialto Bridge. ‘She’ll be the cruise menace, buttonholing the unsuspecting to tell them her life history, and gate-crashing other people’s conversations.’

  Olivia glanced rather anxiously at the young man called Keith, but if he had overheard he gave no sign of it, sitting with his back half-turned and watching the palaces glide past. She noticed that the girl at the garrulous woman’s side was looking at him with passionate intensity. She had long tawny hair, and the image of an uneasy lioness took shape in Olivia’s mind. The babble all around rose to a crescendo as a fire-engine tore past, followed by an ambulance. Molly Moreton-Blake caught her eye and laughed.

  ‘Bear up, my dear,’ she exhorted her. ‘They’ll all vanish into thin air the moment we’re on shore.’

  Astonishingly the launch’s voluble passengers did just this. On emerging from the boat station Olivia was swept by her friends up the narrow Calle Valaresso to get the incomparable view of St Mark’s from the western end of the Piazza. She drew a deep breath, and from that moment neither saw nor thought of any of them for the rest of the afternoon.

  Some two hours later the trio stood on the platform of the Clock Tower, weary but exhilarated, as the second bronze figure reverted to immobility with a jerk, and the resonant hum of the bell died away. In the great Piazza below holidaymakers circled and drifted, suggesting a crowd scene in a musical comedy. Shadows had begun to lengthen as the declining sun slanted shafts of gold from the north-west. A chilly little wind came creeping off the lagoon and up the Piazzetta. Molly knotted a scarf at her throat.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and have a ruinous hot cup of tea at Florian’s,’ she said. ‘There are still some tables in the sun.’

  They descended, and strolled across through the eddying crowd and the pool of pigeons. Sunny tables were in demand, but they managed to appropriate one as a couple got up and walked away. Olivia subsided thankfully on to a chair.

  ‘What bliss,’ she remarked, looking about her.

  ‘Momenta, signori.’ A waiter dashed past bearing a laden tray on high.

  Molly began to stack the used cups and plates. ‘Anyone want to keep in touch?’ she asked, holding up a Daily Express proclaiming industrial strife and decorated with pencilled sketches of passers-by and pigeons.

  Her husband and Olivia declined vigorously as the waiter returned and swept everything from the table with expertise.

  Across the Piazza the orchestra at Quadri’s flung itself into a Strauss waltz. The crowds grew even more animated. A toddler, enchantingly dressed, staggered towards a posse of corn-gobbling pigeons with shouts of delight. The birds exploded into the air, circled smartly once, and landed on the same spot to resume their eating. How can they cram in any more? Olivia wondered, looking at their bulging crops with some alarm.

  The party lingered over tea, enjoying the ever-changing scene until it was time to make for the vaporetto which was to take them to the Penelope, berthed at San Basilio. A crowd was already waiting at the boat station. Olivia quickly spotted the Englishwomen Abroad leaning on their walking-sticks in a strategic position, and the four Americans looking somewhat exhausted. Before she could scan the assembly further a vaporetto was seen to be approaching, and there was general manoeuvring as a queue formed. Late arrivals on the scene like the Moreton-Blakes and herself had to wait for a second boat, and dusk was falling before they reached the white cliff-like side of the Penelope.

  ‘What we want is a drink, if not two,’ said Charles as they went wearily up the gangway. ‘There’s plenty of time. It’s an informal buffet supper tonight, according to the book of words.’

  Olivia was surprised and delighted by her cabin’s comfort and seclusion. She felt that she would gladly forgo both drinks and buffet supper if only she could retire at once to the comfortable bed. It had been a wonderful but long day. However, a warning notice about boat drill put paid to any idea of the kind. Later, much reinvigorated by a brandy and tonic and some interesting food, she found herself sufficiently restored to enjoy a spell on deck, watching the lights of Venice slipping past and receding into the night.

  Her bed was certainly very comfortable when she eventually reached it. She lay propped up against her pillows, book in hand and pervaded by a sense of well-being. Her thoughts touched happily on her son and daughter-in-law and small grandson whose London home she had left only that morning. Looking ahead, the prospect of a lazy day at sea on the morrow was attractive. Further ahead still was the excitement of seeing at last places which she had longed to visit: Athens, for instance, and Troy and Cnossos. All made possible by one of her modest holding of ten Premium Bonds incredibly winning a £500 prize.

  The cabin was an outside one with a window on to the Promenade Deck. As she lay reading one or two people walked past, and she caught snatches of conversation, but soon the ship was quiet. She began to feel sleepy, switched off the bedside light, and settled down for the night. The distant throb of the engines and the gentle roll of the Penelope was soporific, and she soon dozed off…

  In her dream she could not see the man who was saying that it was so far, so good.

  A woman’s voice, half impatient, half mocking, was replying that he was an absolute clot: they’d barely taken off.

  Bemused, Olivia struggled with the muddling idea that she was somehow back on the plane. Then she gave it up, and let sleep enfold her.

  2

  As the sun came up in a clear sky on the following morning the Penelope was progressing steadily down the Adriatic. Passengers with cabins on the port side tended to wake first as the bright light filtered in.

  Drusilla Lang rubbed her eyes, stretched, and lay thinking for a few moments in the lower berth of a double cabin on the Main Deck Aft. Then she got up quietly and tiptoed over to the porthole, shaking her tawny hair out of her eyes.

  ‘I’m awake,’ her husband Keith remarked from the upper berth. ‘No, don’t move — the combination of sun on your hair and that see-through thing you’re wearing…’

  He swung himself down, and took her in his arms.

  ‘I do wish,’ she said presently, as they stood gazing out of the porthole, ‘that we were keeping closer to the Yugoslav coast. Everyone says how super it is, and we’re too far out to see a thing.’

  ‘As I’ve already said more than once,’ he replied dryly, ‘I expect damn all from this trip. In fact, I’m convinced it was a mista
ke to come.’

  ‘It wasn’t. We’ve had all this out before. You’ve been jolly ill, you know. Pneumonia’s no joke, even with antibiotics, and Dr Carmichael said you badly wanted sun and warmth. We ought to be able to count on that, anyway, and seeing all these places’ll be good for your writing.’ Suddenly she burrowed her face into his neck. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said indistinctly, ‘let’s pretend for a minute that we’re doing the trip on our own.’

  In a single Boat Deck cabin with private shower, Mrs Audrey Vickers, Drusilla’s aunt, was also indulging in imaginative thinking as she sipped the early morning tea brought by her steward. She lay back against the pillows, her restless dark eyes moving round the cabin. Without her make-up she looked every one of her fifty-five years.

  She conjured up a scene ushered in by a light knock on the door. In response to a gay summons to come in, Drusilla would appear on the threshold, bright-eyed and laughing, a metamorphosed Keith peeping over her shoulder in a charmingly deferential way, and asking if he might come too. Drusilla would stoop to kiss her affectionately, as they both enquired anxiously if she had slept well. Everything was being absolutely super, they would assure her. As the blurbs said, the holiday of a lifetime… Dear Aunt Audrey, how could they ever thank her enough for it all…?

  Uncannily, there actually were steps approaching, but they hurried past the cabin door and died away. Self-pity swept over Audrey Vickers, and gave way to hot indignation. After giving up her life to Drusilla, to be left for that lout Keith… She moistened her full, rather loose lips with the tip of her tongue, and her hand went out to a tin on the bedside table. She opened it and began to eat biscuits voraciously.

  Dorothy Anstruther and Katherine Lingard, the Englishwomen Abroad, were also enjoying early morning tea, although in more modest surroundings than those of Audrey Vickers. They could easily have afforded a more luxurious cabin, being spinsters of some substance, but their tradition and inclination was to plain living as well as high thinking. As they drank their tea they perused the programme for the day which had arrived with it.