Michael Dibdin - The Dying of the Light

Rosemary broke open the paper sachets and poured the contents into the grey liquid, its surface filmy with whorls of grease.

‘This would be a good way to kill someone,’ she murmured.

The silence was broken only by the clink of crockery and the sound of Mr Purvey sucking tea through his dentures.

‘How many is it now?’ Dorothy asked suddenly.

Rosemary gave her a cautious glance.

‘How many what?’

‘And no one ever investigates, do they?’ Dorothy went on. ‘After all, it’s the most natural thing in the world for old people to die.’

Rosemary sipped her tea.

‘It’s not a question of common or garden death,’ she remarked dismissively. “It’s a question of murder.’

Dorothy gave a wan smile.

‘Oh well, that’s different, of course.’

Rosemary picked up one of the empty sachets.

‘All the killer would need to do is steam one of these open carefully, so as not to tear the paper. Then he…’

She paused, eyeing her friend expectantly.

‘Or she,’ Dorothy murmured at length.

Rosemary nodded.

‘…would refill the sachet with poison…’

‘…from the potting shed in the kitchen garden…’

‘…where everyone has been at some time or another…’

‘.. on some more or less feeble pretext,’ concluded Dorothy. ‘Yes, but how would you make sure that the intended victim was given the poisoned sachet?’

Rosemary frowned.

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Dorothy sipped her tea.

‘Cocoa would be better,’ she said.

‘But that’s already sugared,’ objected Rosemary.

Dorothy’s needles clacked assiduously.

‘Yes, but it tastes so strong that you could add poison without the victim noticing.’

Rosemary shook her head.

‘You’ve still got the same problem, Dot. The mugs of cocoa are just left out on a tray in the hall. There’s no way of making sure that the poison reaches the right person.’

Dorothy set down her knitting. She cradled the tea cup in her hands, as though to warm them.

‘I always take the blue one. Most people use the same mug every night. Yours is the brown one with the broken handle glued back on. Charles likes the dark green one, while Grace prefers the pale pink. Weatherby always uses that hideous coronation mug, and Mrs Hargreaves…’

‘You haven’t really changed your will, have you Dot?’ Rosemary interrupted.

Dorothy picked up her knitting without answering. Rosemary looked at her friend with a preoccupied expression.

‘It’s none of my business, of course,’ she went on, ‘but I must say that I would personally consider it most unwise to put any faith in promises which may have been made in a certain quarter. I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance of their being honoured.’

Dorothy clutched her chest and moaned.

‘What is it?’ cried Rosemary in alarm.

‘I’m all right. Only would you be an angel and fetch my medicine? What with one thing and another I never did manage to get upstairs, and now it’s started to hurt quite badly.’

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Rosemary, springing to her feet.

Dorothy tried a smile which did not quite come off.

‘Could you possibly spare that thick cardie of yours? I feel the cold so now that winter’s here.’

‘Of course you can. Although it’s only September, you know. Or October at the latest.’

‘Does it matter?’ Dorothy returned in an oddly muted voice. ‘You can’t change anything with words, Rose. I’m cold.’

Rosemary made her way along the corridor which wound about the first floor of the building, connecting the various bedrooms. Most of the doors were either closed or slightly ajar, but at length a further bend in the passage revealed one which lay wide open. The room inside looked as though it had been prepared for a guest who had not yet arrived. The furniture was the same as in all the other bedrooms: a sturdy metal-framed single bed with a cabinet beside it, a chest of drawers, a large wardrobe and a hard armchair.

Everything was in its place, corners aligned and not a speck of dust to be seen. The bed was perfectly made, the corners of the covers turned down as though in readiness for the intended occupant. On top of the chest of drawers the various paraphernalia which Mr Purvey needed to keep his diabetes under control were arranged in a precise geometric pattern. Although he had been a resident for several years, Purvey still acted as though he were an uninvited guest who had long outstayed his welcome. Perhaps because of this, he kept his room irreproachably clean and tidy and always left the door open, to indicate that he was not claiming any rights of privacy, still less possession.

Rosemary opened the door opposite and went inside.

She always appreciated her fortune in having one of the smaller bedrooms, which had escaped subdivision. As a result, the walls were solid and the proportions made sense, with two good-sized windows overlooking the grounds at the front of the house. Despite the thick patina of grime on the glass, there was a fine view over the flat expanse of the former croquet lawn, the rockery beyond, and then the pastures rising to the ridge which overlooked the valley. There was a minor road somewhere up there, and when the intervening hedgerows and trees were bare one could sometimes catch a flash of colour as a vehicle sped by.

The noise of footsteps drew her attention abruptly back to the foreground, where a figure in a dark overcoat was striding across the weed-spattered gravel to the blue saloon car parked outside the house, clicking and creaking intermittently as its engine cooled. The man opened the rear door and reached inside. Rosemary hastily stepped back into the shadows of the room as he turned round again, holding a black medical bag. Then the footsteps crunched back to the house again, and the front door distantly slammed.

Rosemary pulled open the middle drawer of the chest which stood between the two windows and lifted out a green cardigan, exposing a panel of sallow newsprint with an article about an agricultural fair. She pushed the drawer closed, overcoming its slight tendency to jam, and was about to open the door when she heard the noise of rubber-soled shoes in the corridor outside.

‘Ahm alwuss trahin’ sang a powerful female voice. ‘Fower to make dat punishment fit dat crime! Sure am! Lordy! Bet your sweet ass!’

Rosemary waited until the squelching footsteps had receded before venturing out. Closing the door carefully behind her, she hurried off along the corridor towards Dorothy’s room. This was situated on the north-facing side of the building, which meant it got no sun and had a much less attractive view over the former kitchen garden, stables and other outbuildings. To make matters worse, the original room had been divided to accommodate extra guests, back in the far-off days when Eventide Lodge had been a flourishing enterprise under the energetic direction of old Mrs Anderson.

Since her son had taken over, death had steadily reduced the number of residents, but the partitions remained in place, strips of flimsy plasterboard through which you could hear everything that happened in the neighbouring room. This was particularly unfortunate in Dorothy’s case since her neighbour, George Channing, snored loudly. Rosemary had tried to have her friend transferred to Mr Purvey’s room, next door to her own, but Mr Anderson had told her that ‘to avoid any suspicion of favouritism’ residents must retain the room they had been allocated on arrival.

The doorway to the two adjoining rooms gave into a cramped plasterboard cubicle from which plywood fire-retardant doors led off on either side. Rosemary was about to open the door into Dorothy’s room when she heard a loud groan from behind the walling to her right. After a moment’s hesitation she grasped the handle of the other door, stepped inside and stood open-mouthed and staring, struck dumb by the sight which met her eyes.