Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

When they bought this house Ella had been very taken with the fact that it had a conservatory. Very nice, she had said. They would spruce it up and make it into an orangery with rare Mediterranean plants. Derek had said however much sprucing up you did and whatever names you gave them, conservatories were apt to become dusty and filled with dead flies, never mind being drearily unused during winter. But Ella had had it freshly painted and added ruched blinds and cane furniture ordered by catalogue from Heal’s. She tried her hand at growing a few of the rarer, more tropical plants in there, and one of her real successes was an oleander bush. Several members of the Exotic Plants Society had admired the oleander very much; one of the ladies actually had the very same variety of oleander in her garden, she said – Petite Red, a dwarf variety. It was nowhere near as luxuriant as Ella’s, however, although having this greenhouse – beg pardon, orangery – probably made it easier. Hers had to be taken into the house in a big pot during the winter, which was a bit of a nuisance, particularly when you had to be so careful with oleanders. They were regarded as one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Ella did know that, did she?

Ella had not known it, but she was not going to admit it to the Exotic Plants crowd.

Earlier, casting around for a means to deal with Clem, her eye had fallen on the bright splash of colour in the orangery. Oleander, one of the most poisonous plants in the world… A tiny pulse of excitement began to beat. In a cluttered kitchen, with a complicated recipe to follow, the oleander leaves might just about pass for bay. As Ella considered this, another fragment of memory swam into her mind, something the Exotic Plants woman had also said about her garden.

‘We inherited a lovely bay tree from the previous owners of our house,’ she had said, ‘but I do wish it wasn’t so near the road. D’you know, people actually reach over the hedge to steal the leaves? Can you believe that? In fact, the other week you wouldn’t believe who I saw taking some— No, I mustn’t say.’

She broke off hopefully, and at least half the assembled company urged her please to say, just in confidence, just among friends.

‘Mr Poulter from the library,’ said the woman. ‘He looked round to make sure no one was watching, then he leaned over the hedge and broke off a handful of bay leaves.’

Remembering that conversation, Ella thought it just went to show that you never knew what seemingly innocent part of your own life might one day come in useful.

Even so, before putting her plan into action she made very sure of the facts, looking up oleander in Derek’s Encyclopaedia Britannica .

Its full name was Nerium oleander . It was a Moroccan and Mediterranean plant, described as an evergreen shrub in the dogbane family, Apocynaceae . Ella already knew this because she had looked it up in preparation for the Exotic Plants afternoon. What she had not known was the strength of what the encyclopaedia called its toxicity. There was a list of the substances oleander plants contained. Ella did not recognize any of them and she could certainly not have pronounced them, but the burden of the song was that if you ate enough you would almost certainly die, and very quickly too. Ella read it all carefully, paying particular attention to the quantities believed to be fatal. As well as the leaves, the bark, it seemed, contained a substance called rosagenin, which was apparently known for its strychnine-like effects.

Before going to Clem’s house, she went into the orangery and, wearing her kitchen gloves, plucked a number of the leaves. Then, with extreme care, she scraped off some of the bark, and sealed everything in a small freezer bag, which she tucked in her handbag. It should be easy enough to stir the contents into Clem’s casserole. He had made enough fuss about telling everyone how he was cooking it this evening, and Ella thought she would be able to make some excuse to go into the kitchen or to find a reason to get him out of the room.

In the end, it was easy. He offered her a glass of sherry and went bumbling out of the kitchen to find the bottle and the glasses. While he was gone Ella tipped all the leaves into the casserole, along with the bark scrapings taken from the stems. There was even time to stir it all round before Clem came back with the sherry.

Lying in bed that night, Ella found it difficult to sleep. She was not specially troubled by what she had done because Clem, stupid poultering old hen, had signed his own death warrant.

What was bothering her was the unpleasant task that now lay ahead, because she would have to drive out to his house, conspicuously bearing Veronica’s recipe and the dessert dishes, and discover his body. And then find those stupid diaries and get rid of them before anyone saw them.

Would it actually be a body she found, though? Supposing he had recovered? Supposing he had managed to summon a doctor or an ambulance?

She finally managed to get to sleep, but her dreams were troubled and the eerie music of The Deserted Village ran in and out of her consciousness like quicksilver.

Next morning, Derek left for the office at half-past eight, as usual. In his own words, he liked to be at his desk on the tick of nine. You had to set an example in these things.

Amy was in the bathroom when Derek left, washing her hair. To Ella’s mind Amy washed her hair far too often. Her mother, said Ella, would have considered Amy was washing all the nature out of it.

Amy said, ‘Yes, but this morning my hair smells a bit of the Red Lion’s seafood platter,’ and Ella found she had to grip the banister because her heart had done its breathless little skip. It was going to be a nuisance if this business with Clem resulted in her heart performing gymnastics every time anyone mentioned eating fish.

She left Amy to her shampooing, saying she would nip round to Veronica’s house for the promised recipe, then go on to Clem’s.

‘It sounded good, that pudding of Veronica’s,’ said Amy, coming downstairs with her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘Have I got to dress up for this bash at Clem’s?’

‘No, but I hope you won’t turn up in jeans,’ said Ella, wrapping up the dishes she was supposed to be lending Clem. It was a nuisance to have to do this, but it was important to act innocently.

Veronica had the meringue recipe ready. She was a bit puffy-eyed this morning, but she invited Ella in, saying there was surely time for a cup of coffee.

‘Actually, there isn’t,’ said Ella. ‘Can we make it another day? I promised to get this stuff round to Clem before he leaves for the library.’

Driving away, the recipe in her bag, Ella was increasingly nervous about what was ahead, but it had to be faced. She parked outside Clem’s house, and saw with mingled relief and apprehension that the curtains were all closed exactly as they had been last night, and that a pint of milk stood on the front doorstep.

Again, it was important to behave naturally, so Ella rang the doorbell and then, when there was no response, plied the knocker. She stepped back, looked up at the curtained windows, then consulted her watch, frowning slightly. Anyone watching would think she was calling on Clem by arrangement and was annoyed to find him either not at home or still in bed.

Ella tried the doorbell again, then walked around the side of the house, trying to quell the nervous clenching of her stomach muscles. This was going to be the tricky bit, the unpleasant bit. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which Clem’s fancy had led him to paint a virulent pink. Here was the back of the house, with its little terrace and the pink chairs that matched the gate. There was the big patio window that opened off the dining room. Ella looked through the window, shading her eyes against the sky’s reflection in the glass.