Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

She checked the bedrooms again, even looking under Clem’s pillow this time, but found nothing. By now she should be phoning the paramedics. If anyone had seen her break in they might later remember there had been quite a long delay before the ambulance arrived. She scoured the dining room and then the sitting room, again opening cupboards and cabinets. Nothing. Finally, she stood in the hall, unwilling to re-enter the kitchen. Don’t be squeamish, said her mind sharply. You know you’ve got to go in. Do it. Don’t think about what’s lying there on the floor. Don’t even look at it.

Pressing the tissue to her mouth again, she opened the door and went in. Terror engulfed her at once. He had moved – Clem had moved. Oh God, thought Ella, staring at the twisted figure, oh God, he’s still alive and he knows I’m here and he’s trying to crawl towards me for help. And then she saw that of course he had not moved. It was just that the clouds had cleared and a spear of sunlight had fallen across the kitchen, giving an eerie semblance of movement to the prone figure.

She opened cupboards and drawers. Nothing. She dare not waste any more time; she would have to make that phone call to the ambulance. And then she saw it – the missing journal, thrust behind a plate rack, clearly done hastily because several corners of the pages were slightly creased. Ella seized it thankfully, and glanced inside. Yes, it was the current one. The final entry read, ‘Dear Diary, yesterday noticed definite frisson between our visiting Oxford don and a certain young lady who helps out in the library… May well try to promote good relations and more closeness between them – if only to annoy E.H.’

Fury rose up in Ella. You thought someone was your friend – you trusted him – and all the time he had been sniggering and plotting behind your back. She thrust the journal into the bag with the others, then headed for the phone in the hall.

‘Emergency, which service, please?’

Ella had thought this out, just as she had thought out the other parts of her plan. No longer troubling to quench panic, she asked for ambulance. ‘Quickly.’

When the ambulance service, calm and efficient, came on, she said in a breathless voice, ‘I’m at a friend’s house. Mr Clement Poulter. I’ve had to break in. He was lying on the floor and I thought – oh God, I thought he had just fainted, but now I think he might be dead – anyway, deeply unconscious. So please can you come…’

‘That’s all right, madam,’ said the voice. ‘Can you give me the address?’ A pause while a note was made. ‘We’ll be with you in about eight minutes. Can I just get your name and address in the meantime? And can you give me any more details about Mr Poulter’s condition?’

Ella knew they generally kept you talking while the paramedics were on their way. It was something to do with maintaining calm or making sure you were not a hoaxer. Or, if you were the sufferer, making sure you stayed conscious, of course. Whatever it was, it meant she could sit down on the little hall chair, and establish some of the details of her plan.

‘I’d arranged to call,’ she said. ‘Some dishes I was lending Clem – Mr Poulter. Only he didn’t answer the door and the milk was still on the step and curtains drawn… So I went round the back and I saw him through the kitchen window, lying on the floor.’

‘You did the right thing phoning at once,’ said the voice, and Ella thought, oh, if only you knew!

She said, ‘I just thought he’d fallen over – broken an ankle or something. I smashed the window to get to him.’

‘Very resourceful.’ The voice was warm and approving. Ella remembered that these calls were usually automatically recorded.

She gave a half-sob and said, ‘But I saw almost at once that he was – um, well, if he isn’t dead he’s deeply – deeply – unconscious. I said that, didn’t I? And he’s been dreadfully sick and – and so on.’

‘Our people are used to all that kind of thing,’ said the voice.

‘You’re very kind,’ said Ella, meaning it. ‘And, oh, wait, I can hear the ambulance now. Do I ring off?’

‘Just let them in and then come back to me when they’re in the house.’

As Ella unlocked the front door, admitting a burly gentleman and a youngish woman, she thought that you heard all kinds of horror stories about the NHS and the emergency services, but they certainly seemed to be coming up to scratch for Clem. Fortunately, however, it would be much too late for them to save his life.

Amy was horrified when Gran returned home white-faced and tearful, with a dreadful story of how she had found Clem Poulter dead on the floor of his own kitchen. Amy was not entirely unfamiliar with people zonking out on the floor and paramedics having to be called, but in her world the cause was usually drink or drugs. It was impossible to associate Clem Poulter with either of these things, however.

‘You broke into his house?’ she said, rushing to make Gran a cup of tea. ‘You actually smashed a window and climbed in? Gran, you’re amazing.’

‘I did it without thinking,’ Gran said. ‘Oh, that’s a nice cup of tea, Amy. I think I’ll take a couple of paracetamol as well.’ She drank the tea gratefully. ‘I could see him quite clearly through the patio windows,’ she said. ‘He was lying on the floor in a dreadful huddle. I suppose I could have phoned the police right away – in fact that’s probably what I should have done – but all I could think was of getting to him at once.’

‘I think it was brilliant of you,’ said Amy warmly.

‘Well, I’ve known him so long, oh dear, since we were children. I’ll have to phone Veronica, and somebody will have to let the people at the library know… I think I’ll just give your grandfather a ring first. He’ll know what’s best.’

‘I could tell them at the library,’ said Amy. ‘The girls there would know who to contact.’

‘No, I’d better do it,’ said Gran. ‘It’s my responsibility, Amy. He was one of my oldest friends. He’d want me to do everything I could for him.’

Everyone in Bramley was deeply saddened at the death of nice Mr Poulter from the library. Shocking, they said. Some kind of food poisoning, seemingly. It just went to show you could not be too careful with shellfish. The Red Lion removed its seafood platter from the bar menu at once, and chalked spaghetti bolognaise on the board instead, which, as the harassed manager said, could surely offend no one – well, apart from people who knew how it should be spelled, so would somebody please find a dictionary and rewrite it correctly .

But when the results of the autopsy were made known, it appeared that nice Mr Poulter had not died from food poisoning at all, but from a different kind of poisoning altogether. The leaves of Nerium oleander , the Mediterranean plant from the dogbane family, Apocynaceae . The inquest followed three days later, at which it was concluded that Mr Poulter, eagerly trying out a new recipe for a dinner party, had mistaken the very harmful toxic oleander leaves for the entirely harmless and flavoursome bay leaves.

Ella, wearing a grey outfit (black, she felt, would have been overdoing it), gave subdued evidence of having called at Clem Poulter’s house early in the evening to discuss recipes, and of arranging to return early the following morning with a recipe and some dessert dishes. Mr Poulter had been cooking the meal then, she said, and had told her he would be eating some for his supper that night. She had not particularly looked at the dish, but she had thought it smelled very tasty and she had… she paused to stifle a sob… she had thought how much they would enjoy eating it at the little party. She would like to add her appreciation of the paramedics who had come out very promptly and been very kind.