No Friendly Drop

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

At first it seems that Lord Henry Grayle has taken an overdose of sleeping medicine, but the autopsy reveals a tiny amount of scopolamine along with the draught - harmless in itself, but fatal when mixed . . . A poisoner with apparently expert knowledge is at work in the great house at Tassart. But from what motive, and how? Before he can find an answer to these questions, Detective Inspector John Poole is faced with a second, more horrible murder. And when there are shocking revelations both above and below stairs, Poole starts to see light breaking on the horizon.

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THE great hall of Tassart was lit only by the flickering light of burning logs as Lady Grayle came down the wide, uncarpeted staircase. It was early
summer, still light out of doors, but the big house was always cold, and Lady Grayle hated twilight, so the curtains were drawn before dinner and the wood fire in the great Tudor fireplace of the
hall, like the Vestal Virgins’ lamp, was never out from year’s end to year’s end.

The glow from the fire, reflected from a hundred points in the rich oak panelling, was kind to Lady Grayle as she stood looking down into the flames, one foot resting on the low brick step, her
long skirt drawn up to let the heat play upon a slim leg. Lady Grayle was fifty-five; even by daylight no stranger would have thought her fifty and by this mellow light she seemed still in the
prime of life, her figure perfect, her skin glowing, and her eyes bright with vitality; only the broad velvet band round her neck betrayed what it was intended to conceal. A close inspection would
have revealed tiny wrinkles round the eyes and mouth, but they were the wrinkles that come early to anyone who rides hard to hounds in all weathers; the mouth was too straight and hard for beauty,
the mouth of a woman accustomed to pick her own line and follow it.

The small foot on the hearth-step tapped impatiently as its owner looked up at the gallery which connected the staircase with the bedroom corridors. With a quick movement Lady Grayle reached for
the old-fashioned tapestry bell-pull which hung by the fireplace and jerked it sharply twice. The bell which rang in the pantry was electric, because Lady Grayle was a modern, but her husband loved
the old-world furnishings of Tassart, and would not have the panelling hacked about for electric fittings.

There was an appreciable interval before a door, discreetly shadowed by the staircase, swung open and a butler appeared, carrying a silver salver on which rested a cocktail shaker and three
finely cut glasses. Depositing the salver on a small but sturdy oak table which flanked the fireplace, the butler switched on a standard lamp which stood beside it. Giving the ‘shaker’
a final professional whirl, he took off the top. In silence he poured the rich flame-coloured mixture into one of the glasses and, raising the salver, approached his mistress.

“May I speak to your Ladyship some time in the morning?”

The respectful murmur was almost inaudible, but Lady Grayle’s ear was attuned to it. A quick frown crossed her face. Words may be very simple and yet convey the threat of infinite
worry—domestic or otherwise. Lady Grayle, however, was not accustomed to fret herself for long over trifles. Her tone was casual as she replied.

“Yes, after breakfast, Moode. I’ll ring for you.”

There was even a slight smile on her lips as she watched Moode carefully replace the stopper on the silver contraption which accorded so ill with its surroundings. The butler’s movements
were so deft, so silent, that it was almost a pleasure to watch them, as it always is to see perfect execution. The man himself was small and inclined to stoutness, but there was dignity, carefully
cultivated dignity, in his movements, and his rather pink face, surmounted by greying hair, was not unhandsome.

The clatter of high-heeled shoes on a wooden floor drew Lady Grayle’s eyes to the staircase, down which her son and daughter-in-law were now coming. Lady Chessingham was a tall, thin
woman, handsome in an uninteresting way—the cold, too-much-nose-and-tooth way that foreigners so much dislike. She looked definitely older than her husband, who, though actually the same
height, appeared, with his narrow chest and feeble moustache, insignificant beside her.

“Your own fault if the cocktail’s spoilt,” said Lady Grayle. “I couldn’t wait for you.”

“We don’t drink cocktails,” said her daughter-in-law, a hint of superiority in her voice.

“Don’t We? What about Our Consort?” asked Lady Grayle unkindly. “Come on, Charles, it’ll do you good, put a little go into you.”

She filled a glass and handed it to her son. Charles sipped it and made a wry face.

“It’s terribly strong,” he said, “tastes of a hairdresser’s shop—vanilla or something, I suppose.”

“Vanilla! That’s Syrop d’Orgeat—a ‘Perfect Peach,’ Henry’s latest.”

“I don’t like it,” said Charles, putting down the glass still half-full and coughing nervously.

“No guts, that’s your trouble,” said his mother.

“How’s father this evening?” said Charles, who, though he was thirty-six and had been a Member of Parliament for twelve years, had never lost his dread of his mother’s
tongue. Lady Grayle’s face clouded.

“Rotten, poor dear,” she said, and there was a note of tenderness in her usually hard voice. “I don’t know what to do with him; none of these doctors do him any good. I
took him to Spavage again last week. He talked of temperament and a sea voyage. Of course I know it’s his nerves and I know equally well that he’d be miserable away from
Tassart.”

“You should take him to Lawton Smythe,” said her daughter-in-law. “He’s done wonderful things for me.”

“Your latest protégé, Catherine? What’s become of that Jew-boy you were so keen on last year?”

Lady Chessingham looked down her long nose.

“He failed,” she said shortly. Then more eagerly: “Lawton Smythe’s a Canadian, trained in America. He’s got the most wonderful hands; I’m sure he would . . .
”

But Lady Grayle was not listening. She had returned to her comfortable attitude before the fire and was staring down into the flames. With a sharp turn of the head she broke into her
daughter-in-law’s panegyric.

“Run and see if Henry’s coming, Charles,” she said, “I’m famished.”

“Surely, mother, one of the servants can do that,” murmured Lady Chessingham, who was always trying to erect a façade of dignity for her husband.

“He hates being hunted out by Moode,” said Lady Grayle. “Charles hasn’t seen him for a month; it won’t hurt him to run for once.”

A door at the end of the hall opened.

“Your leg, mother,” said Catherine hurriedly. Lady Grayle stared at her.

“Good Lord, girl; when were you born?” she asked. “We’ve been showing our knees for the last six years; it doesn’t excite anyone to see ’em now.”

Lady Grayle had been born and reared in Leicestershire, and though her husband’s first and almost only successful task with her had been to cure the clipping of the final “g,”
her English was still far removed from the purity which her daughter-in-law worshipped.

“It looks different with long skirts, somehow,” said Catherine. “I think they’re so much more becoming.”

“Of course they are, when your legs are like sticks—though I’ll admit yours look well enough in a boot. Well, Henry, here you are at last; I was just sending Charles to look
for you; I thought you were still dressing.”

It was her husband who had entered the hall through the far door—the door of his study. Lord Grayle was nearly sixty and looked his age; his hair and moustache were grizzled and there were
lines of suffering about his mouth, whilst the stoop of his shoulders suggested permanent tiredness. He had a charming, if rather weak face—a face that reflected his career. After leaving
Cambridge he had sat in the House for a few years in the Liberal interest, but was unfortunate enough to succeed his father when only thirty. Returning to Tassart, he gave himself up to watching an
extremely competent agent manage his estate, and taking a mildly useful part in the county affairs. In the War he played a similar part at Rouen, ill-health rather than timidity keeping him out of
the line. The only enterprising thing he had done in his life was to fall in love with and marry Helen Lavering during a season’s hunting with the Quorn—a performance which had
astonished his friends, and which, in spite of the complete difference of their temperaments, had been an unqualified success. Everybody liked Henry Grayle, many people loved him; he had not an
enemy in the world—but he was a sad man because he knew that he had not made use of his natural ability and opportunities. He had always been delicate and latterly he had developed a
neuralgic ‘tic’ which, during the attacks of acute pain, nearly drove him off his head and was driving him into a state of neurasthenia far more serious than the disease
itself.

“I dressed early, my dear; I thought perhaps a hot bath might stop this thing. Come along; let’s go in.”

Another door, between the fire and the staircase, had opened and Moode appeared, murmuring his gentle formula. Lady Grayle slipped her arm through Catherine’s and led her into the
dining-room. She was always trying to like her daughter-in-law, repenting the sarcasms which the latter’s cold primness invariably drew from her. After all, Catherine was a good wife for a
budding statesman, ambitious, persevering and economical; she had forced him into an under-secretaryship in the last government, an honour which Charles, son of his father, would never have
acquired by himself. Lady Grayle realised that she had achieved less for her husband; still, the ‘liking’ was uphill work.

The mahogany dining-table, reduced to its smallest capacity and appearing like a candle-lit island in the dark sea of emptiness which surrounded it, was yet uncomfortably large for the small
family party. When they were alone, Lady Grayle liked to have her husband next to her, so that she was faced now by Lady Chessingham, who looked her best when surrounded by the dignity of the old
family plate and portraits. Indeed, she fitted into these surroundings better than did her more vital and restless hostess.

Dinner did not progress very cheerfully. Lady Grayle was worried about her husband, and relieved her feelings by a malicious twitting of her son; this naturally roused Catherine to rather
heavy-handed defence of Charles, whose by no means contemptible brain, still moving at departmental pace, was too slow to parry his mother’s thrusts. Lord Grayle, who was eating nothing, put
in a good-humoured word for his son whenever Catherine was driven from the field, but Charles, accustomed to the dignified respect supplied by his wife and his Civil Servants, was not enjoying
himself.

Seeking for a diversion, his eye wandered round the dining-room.

“What’s become of the amboyna cabinet, father?” he asked.

Lord Grayle’s eyes strayed to the wide space between the tall windows at the end of the room, a space rather inadequately filled by a single chair.

“Don’t ask me; what’s happening to the furniture in this house is known only to the Almighty and your mother. She’s got one of her crazes.”

Charles looked enquiringly at his mother, who was smiling indulgently at her husband.

“It’s a lucky thing for you, Henry, that I do take the bit occasionally. Tassart and its contents would fall to pieces if they were left to your tender mercies.”

Lord Grayle sighed; the twinkle in his eyes had given place to their more accustomed gloom.

“True, my dear, true,” he said. Then, turning to Charles: “It comes out of this revaluation I—we—had done. I was alarmed by all these fires in old houses that have
been taking place; I didn’t feel sure that the place, and particularly the furniture, was properly covered. I meant to have a new valuation made but, as usual, I let it slide. It wasn’t
till Vange was burnt down just before Christmas that I said something to Helen about it; within a week she’d got a firm of valuers down and at the end of the month the thing was done. As she
says, that’s how I look after Tassart.”

Lady Grayle patted her husband’s hand affectionately.

“We’re a well-balanced firm,” she said, “you have the ideas and I carry ’em out.”

Charles still looked puzzled. His was one of the methodical minds which like explanations to begin at the beginning, work methodically and exactly through intervening stages and wind up with a
considered peroration. The crossing of t’s should, in his opinion, be done by the writer.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” he said with a slight frown. “What has revaluation to do with the absence of the cabinet?”

“It’s quite obvious, Charles, if you’d only think,” said Lady Grayle, a little unjustly. “The valuation showed that everything was absurdly under-insured, and it also
showed that almost every stick in the place is falling to pieces for lack of attention—worm, dry rot, and all sorts of horrors. Naturally, it’s madness to let that go on, throwing money
away. That cabinet’s gone to be repaired.”

“Yes, and when it comes back you won’t find it in the same place,” interposed Lord Grayle maliciously. “I spoke of a craze, justly. The house is being turned upside down;
the men can’t get on with their proper work because they spend their time carrying one lot of furniture downstairs and another up again; the housemaids are all leaving because they’re
expected to clean dirt off the top of pictures that’s been there since the Restoration; I only maintain the status quo in my study by keeping a six-shooter on my writing-table when
I’m there, and locking the door when I go out.”

“Don’t be so absurd, Henry,” said Lady Grayle, laughing. “You know quite well that Mr. Cristen told us we’d got all our woods and periods mixed. Obviously
it’s wrong to have amboyna and mahogany and oak all mixed together. We can’t move the—do have some chicken, dear; it’s very bad for you to drink all that claret and just
nibble a bit of toast—oh, well, it’ll be your own funeral—we can’t move the dining-room table or the panelling, but when that cabinet comes back it’s going in my
sitting-room with the walnut.”

“All that you say, my dear Nell, is right—but it’s an expensive game.”

Lady Chessingham pricked up her ears.

“Expensive?” she asked sharply. “Why?”

“Item one, the valuation itself; they suggested a percentage basis as being the usual method, but we saw through that and had a fixed sum—£500—pictures, china, and all;
item two, increase of insurance premiums to cover increased value; item three, cost of having furniture repaired, worms eradicated, pictures repainted. It means ruin, my dear Catherine, for Charles
if not for me. We shall probably have to sell half of it to pay for the rest—the Romney ‘Caroline Countess’ will be the first to go.”

Lord Grayle was chaffing, but his daughter-in-law was in grim earnest.

“Oh, you can’t do that!” she exclaimed. “If it must be done at all, it should be paid for out of income!”

“That is debatable, my dear—appreciation of capital value; but in any case, I have no income.”

“Mother seems to have enough to spend on her clothes!” flashed Catherine.

Lady Grayle laughed and rose to her feet.

“Come along, Catherine; if we’re going to quarrel about my clothes we’ll do it in the library and leave these poor men to enjoy their port in peace. Not more than two glasses,
Henry.”

Lord Grayle patted his wife’s shoulder as he opened the door for her and Catherine; then returned to the table and sat down beside his son.

“No port, Charles?” he asked. “Better have a glass; cheer you up. Croft ’04; good if not great.”

“Thank you, father; I never drink port, and I’m sure . . . ”

“You mean your wife doesn’t let you. Don’t let yourself become a complete echo, my dear boy; you’ve got a will of your own—or should have.”

Charles flushed and, as was usual with him when he disliked a subject, changed it.

“The Romney, father; you’re not serious about selling it?”

“Can’t,” was the laconic reply. “Heirloom, like all the pictures and most of the furniture. I wish I could sell something; with this taxation it’s almost impossible
to live.”

Charles, relieved about the Romney, tried to be sympathetic.

“Is the position really as bad as all that, father? Surely you can’t be spending a great deal down here—just the two of you? You don’t entertain much.”

“We don’t, worse luck, because we can’t. A place like Tassart eats money, Charles, even if it’s empty. There’s nothing coming in from the estate—I can hardly
keep it going. As you know, I’ve had to give up my two directorships, and we live on our trustee securities.”

“I’m sorry it’s so bad; it’s not very promising for the future.”

“Your future? It’s not; you must get a job in the Cabinet next time or go into the City and earn something.”

Charles frowned, then screwed up his courage.

“Seriously, father, Catherine and I are a good deal disturbed at mother’s extravagance; don’t you think it’s rather absurd for her—at her age—to spend so much
money on her clothes? Catherine says it must run into four figures; at times like these—the state of taxation, as you say—I mean, any idea of mortgaging the future would be . . .
”

Charles, half-way between his House of Commons manner and a childhood inhibition, glanced at his father. The latter was gently swirling his brandy in its large goblet, apparently absorbed in his
task. This apparent inattention to his theme irritated the noble member for South Quenshire. His tone became more severe.

“And it’s not only that; we hear that she bets heavily. There was a rumour of her having lost several hundred pounds at the Epsom Spring Meeting. It is really most lamentable. One
can understand anyone who goes to a meeting having a pound or two on a horse, but this betting on the wire is sheer gambling.”

Lord Grayle’s eyes were smouldering as he raised them to his son’s face, but his voice was quiet.

“You will oblige me, Charles, by not criticising your mother. Sure you won’t have any brandy? Then we will join them.”

In the library, Lady Chessingham, in a high-backed chair beside the fire, was knitting a silk tie; Lady Grayle was at a writing-table scribbling a note, one knee crossed over the other and a
long green cigarette holder between the fingers of her left hand. She threw a quick glance at her husband’s face as he came in and at once went and joined him before the fire. Charles,
looking stiff and ill at ease, was pretending an interest in his wife’s work. Lady Grayle slipped her arm through her husband’s.

“Is it bad, old man?” she whispered.

“Hellish.”

“Come and have a game of piquet with me. You mustn’t have anything just yet; too soon after dinner.”

Lord Grayle made a grimace.

“Didn’t have much dinner,” he said.

“No; it was very naughty of you. And you shouldn’t drink a lot of wine when you’re not eating.”

“It helps.”

“It may help at the time, but it must excite your nerves and make the neuralgia worse afterwards. Was Charles tiresome?”

“Pompous young prig,” growled the proud father under his breath.

Lady Grayle smiled.

“It’s that nasty little black hat,” she said irrelevantly. “Never mind, they’ll be gone on Monday and then I can look after you properly. Would you like the
wireless, Catherine?”

“Thank you, mother, we don’t care for the wireless.”

“My God!” whispered Lady Grayle.

Charles was looking at The Times.

“I see that George Blentworth is speaking on ‘Contractual Obligations of Dominion Status,’ ” he said. “We might listen to that.”

“We might not!” growled Lord Grayle. “That pin-headed fool! He took Lower Fourth and after six years finished in First Hundred—and they let him talk to the country about
Dominion!”

“He will be Secretary of State in the next Conservative Government,” said Charles stiffly.

“Then God help the Dominions; they will indeed contract—out! Your ‘elder,’ isn’t it, dear?”

Charles subsided into the Spectator, and the game of piquet went quietly on till the door opened and Moode appeared with a large tray. Lord Grayle glanced at the clock.

“Ten o’clock; surely I can have some now, dear?”

“All right, I’ll get them when we’ve finished this hand.”

Lady Chessingham looked up from her knitting.

“What is it, mother? Let me get it for you,” she said dutifully.

“Thank you, Catherine. Father’s tablets; they’re in the middle drawer of the writing-table in my sitting-room.”

Lady Chessingham carefully finished her row, put down the knitting, and walking across to the card-table, held out her hand.

Lady Grayle looked up.

“M’m?”

“The key, mother.”

“It’s not locked.”

“Not locked? but they’re poison!”

“Rubbish; it’s only a sedative.”

Catherine opened her mouth to contradict, but, thinking better of it, turned and left the room. In five minutes she was back.

“You take it dissolved, don’t you, father?”

“Yes, please, dear; in a little brandy.”

Catherine went across to the tray, and taking the stopper from one of the decanters, sniffed at it. The tablet apparently took some time to dissolve, as it was a minute before she carried the
glass across to her father-in-law.

Lord Grayle thanked her, drank it, and went on with his game. A quarter of an hour later, in the middle of a hand, he put down his cards.

“D’you know, Nell, I think I shall go to bed,” he said. “That stuff’s done me good; I feel as if I could sleep. Can’t afford to miss the chance.”

“I’m so glad, dear; go, of course. I’ll come up in twenty minutes and tuck you up.”

Lady Grayle found her husband already in bed when she went up a quarter of an hour later. He seemed half-asleep, but greeted her with a smile of content.

“I feel lovely,” he said. “First time this thing’s stopped to-day.”

His wife kissed him affectionately.

“You know, dear,” he continued, “there’s something in what those two prigs say. We are spending rather a lot—for an old couple who’ve had their life.
We ought to think about Charles’s future.”

Lady Grayle stiffened.

“I don’t admit that I’ve had my life,” she said, “and I’m not old. We’ve just as much right to enjoy ourselves as Charles and Catherine—they
don’t know how to, anyhow. Besides, he’s got all the Belchister money. Of course, I know what you mean; it’s not ‘we’ who are spending a lot—it’s
me!”

“Nonsense! It’s me—I—just as much. I could cut down the stable a lot, and probably other things, too. Charles really has got a chance of doing something for the
family—though I don’t myself think he’s good enough. Still, he’ll be in the Lords soon and there must be two or three Ministers in the Upper House; they’ll be glad
enough of anyone with government experience. He’ll need money if he gets a job—entertaining and so on; we must think of his career.”

“You can leave his career to his wife. She’ll push him on; she thinks of nothing else. That woman’d shoot a fox if she thought it would advance Charles’s wretched
career!”

Lord Grayle laughed.

“You’re not very just; she’s a good wife.”

“It’d be much more use if she were a good mother! What’s the use of Charles having a career if they’re going to let the family die out? But look here, you must go to
sleep. Don’t worry about money; we’ll talk about it when you feel better. You’re not to worry; promise!”

Lord Grayle smiled sleepily.

“All right, dear; bless you. Leave me those tablets.”

“Oh, Henry, you won’t want them now. You’ll sleep beautifully.”

“Sleep better if I know they’re there.”

Reluctantly Lady Grayle put the little bottle down on the table beside the bed.

“You won’t take more than one, will you?”

But Lord Grayle was already asleep.

DR. NORMAN CALLADINE was just rising from his solitary breakfast when the telephone bell rang. He had
been up most of the night with a diphtheria case and had allowed himself to remain in bed till nine. Methodically he finished rolling his napkin and slipping it into its wooden ring; then walked to
the instrument and lifted the receiver.

“Dr. Calladine speaking.”

“Oh, sir, is that you? This is Moode speaking, Tassart Hall, sir. Will you please come up at once. His Lordship—we can’t wake him. Very much afraid he’s dead, sir. Her
Ladyship wants you to come at once.”

“Of course, but tell me—he is still in bed; is that right? And is there no breathing at all? The pupils—are they dilated? You didn’t notice. Well, I’ll come
straight along. Have hot water ready, of course.”

Dr. Calladine hurried into his surgery and started cramming things into his bag. A small cylinder of oxygen had to go separately.

“No hope, I’m afraid,” he muttered to himself. “Still, people often make mistakes about breathing. Can’t be Cheyne-Stokes anyhow—they’d notice that.
It’s that Dial of course—overdose—mistake or on purpose. I shall be for it whichever it is. Damn.”

Visions of an inquest rose before the doctor as he got his car out of its dark little garage and drove off down. . .