Ann Granger - Mitchell and Markby 09 - A Touch of Mortality p.04

*12*
"It's the last straw!" Liam slammed his document case down on the kitchen table. "Now it turns out Bodicote was public enemy number one in the world of librarians and bookdealers! A kleptomaniac! I knew he was barmy."

"My head aches," Sally protested. "I wish you wouldn't crash about like it."

"Your head aches? My head feels as if it's going to ex­plode! I can't work here, that's for sure! Country quiet? Peace?" He snorted. "It'd be quieter in the middle of Pic­cadilly Circus. Would you believe the Arts and Antiques Squad sent a man down? There are distraught librarians from all over the country descending on Bamford police station to view the haul from that cottage! Not to mention journalists! It must be slow for news at the moment, if even the tabloids want a picture of Bodicote's lair! One even tried to interview me!"

He was marching up and down the kitchen, flinging out his hands to underline points, narrowly missing crockery and pots. He might have been lecturing to a class of students, she thought bitterly. Goodness knows, his voice was loud enough. They ought to be able to hear him at the other end of the village.

"They've cleared all the books out now," Sally pressed her hands to her temples. "Don't keep on so, Liam. All the librarians and the police and everyone else, they've all gone."

"For how long?" Liam was unpersuaded. "Until the next ridiculous bit of nonsense! I tell you, I cannot work here! I'm taking my notes into the lab this morning. I'll work in my office there. I might just as well have stayed there as take time off to work here!"

"You go back there every week anyway, at least once or twice," Sally retorted with some spirit. "So it isn't this business of Bodicote and the books which is driving you away!"

Liam paused with his case in his hand, turning in the door­way. "Meaning just what?"

She couldn't be bothered to argue with him. A row first thing in the morning would only upset her for the rest of the day. She had to go into work. She needed to get her head together.

"Look, just go," she said. "I'll see you tonight."

He stared at her. "Take an aspirin." He hesitated as if seeking to suggest some more efficacious remedy. Perhaps failing to think of one, he added, "Drink some of that herbal brew of yours. You swear by it!"

She nodded. Liam hunched his shoulders and went out. Moments later she heard his car draw away.

Without him a calm fell over the kitchen as in the wake of a storm. She got up and went to the sink, turning on the hot tap to run over the breakfast dishes. Austin had urged her not to arrive at work before ten. Time to clean up a little here first.

Washing up proved therapeutic. She felt much more in con­trol of things when the breakfast crockery was neatly ranged away and the work surfaces wiped down. Only the headache persisted, beating dully at her forehead. It was still only just before nine. She'd make a cup of tea before she left.

Sally's hand hovered above the neat row of pots containing her herbal infusions. Finally it descended with a certain re­luctance on the battered margarine tub containing Bodicote's present.

"Poor old chap," she murmured. She prised the lid free and lifted the tub to her nose. "Phew!" It didn't smell very good. It had probably been shut up in this tub for months, since the summer. She gave it a shake. It was a mixture of some kind. She couldn't identify it all. Some of it looked like feverfew. Perhaps that would help her headache? She could at least try, just the once. She had kept the tea because just to throw it away seemed to insult the old man's memory. He'd given it to her as a kindly gesture. Well, why not try it?

The tea, brewed up, didn't taste all that good. Sally grim­aced at the first sip. Determinedly she swallowed most of it, but reaching the dregs at the bottom of her mug, tipped them down the sink. Pace the shade of Mr. Bodicote, she wouldn't make it again. She picked up the tub containing the remaining herbs and dropped it into the waste bin.

In future she'd stick to her own tried and true concoctions. She made up a flask as usual and thrust it into her shoulder-bag, ready to set off for work. It occurred to her as she did that her headache had gone. So Bodicote's tea had worked, after all!

She went outside and began the tedious ritual of checking the car. It gave some comfort to know she was at least doing as the police had suggested. She was by no means confident she'd be able to find a device if it had been fixed to the vehicle anywhere. Sally crouched to peer underneath the body, stretching out an old make-up mirror which she'd at­tached to a tennis racquet. By panning it to and fro she got a glimpse of various nooks not otherwise visible to the eye. She felt a fool doing it. Liam had been mocking of her home­made search device, but only until she'd caught him using it one day. After that he hadn't mentioned it again—but he still used it.

A strange dark lump was attached to the front axle. Oh, my God! But only a lump of mud. She sighed with relief. Open the hood and take a look at the engine next. No bits of wire she didn't recognize. But, let's face it, if the thing was wired to explode as she switched on the ignition, it would probably be done in such a way she wouldn't spot it. She hoped, if it happened, she'd be killed outright. To lose both legs, that would be worse, far worse. Or perhaps it wouldn't. It was a fine, disputatious point.

She slammed down the hood and stood back. It was a wea­risome job and she felt tired after completing it. Sleeping so badly last night, thinking about everything, that was the cause of that! She hadn't slept well at all for ages. Austin had no­ticed how tired she'd looked. Telling her not to come in so early. He didn't realize—or did he?—that she left home early because her heart lightened as she drove away from the cot­tage—and sank correspondingly as she approached it on her return. Austin. Austin and his plans. As if she hadn't enough on her mind.

She climbed into the driver's seat and switched on the en­gine without even thinking about it. It didn't blow up. She backed cautiously into the lane and turned the car toward Bamford.


Alan Markby walked into the regional headquarters building and made for his office. On the way, he passed the room which accommodated Prescott and two others. The door was open and he could see them gathered around something on a desk which they were studying. Pearce was with them, look­ing both embarrassed and glum.

Markby strolled in. "What's all this? Mothers' Union meeting?"

Prescott looked up with a grin. "Inspector's got his pic in the local rag, sir!"

"Oh, yes!" Markby remembered. "Let's have a look, then!"

They passed it to him. Pearce, hovering dismally at the back of the group, said, "It's nothing to make a fuss about."

It wasn't. It was arguably the least controversial photo­graph of a police officer Markby had ever seen. Pearce and Tessa had been posed against their own front door. But for some reason, the picture had been chopped off so that only their heads were visible. That was to say, Tessa's head and Pearce's head and shoulders, he being the taller of the two. Tessa's expression was fixed and ferocious. Pearce was wear­ing a simple grin.

"She had her hair done for that," said Pearce now in se­pulchral tones. "She's upset. I mean, look at it. I look like the ruddy village idiot! She wants me to phone the paper and complain. Can't see anything of the house—or the dog."

"I've seen worse, Dave," said Markby kindly. "Newspa­per pictures are chancy things. You don't look—look bad. Tell Tessa her hair looks very nice."

It looked awful, he thought. She was a pretty girl, but the corkscrew curls and rigid topknot didn't suit her round face. It made her look like a cottage loaf.

He handed the newspaper to Pearce who gazed mistrust­fully at the page bearing his image. "My mother'll like it," he said, without sounding as if he drew much comfort from this thought.


As Sally drove along she felt undeniably altogether more re­laxed. Still tired, but not irritable-tired. Just slowing-down.

At the thought, she did slow down, literally. It wasn't any good drifting off like this while driving! Concentrate! she ordered herself. She began to take extra notice of everything, as an exercise to keep herself awake, making a running com­mentary in her head.

It was quite a nice morning. What beautiful horses in that field, nicely protected with smart blankets. Thank goodness they'd seen the last of the frost for the time being. It was strange to think that before long Christmas would be here. That reminded her that she still hadn't bought any greeting cards. All the best ones would be gone if she didn't buy now. She hadn't made a list. She'd still got last year's list some­where. Bump, bump. Must remember that pothole tonight on the way home.

Someone was ahead of her, a cyclist. Pulling out with elab­orate care—it was so very difficult to concentrate—she over­took Yvonne Goodhusband, peddling briskly along on an antiquated bicycle with a wicker basket fixed to the handlebar. Yvonne was sensibly clad in tweeds, a headscarf tied on her hair. She saw who drove the overtaking car and signaled. Sally slowed, stopped and waited with engine idling for Yvonne to catch up.

Even so, she'd managed to leave Yvonne quite a way be­hind and it was a moment before she saw her in the mirror, peddling determinedly and with a certain abandon, rather in the manner of a cavalry charge. She liked Yvonne. It wouldn't do to say so to Liam. Though why not, for goodness sake? Was she required to tailor her every attitude to match his? As if to show that she didn't, Sally wound down the window and leaned out, shouting, "Hi, there!"

The sharp wind which brushed her face was pleasant, re­viving her. She must keep the window open as she drove.

Mrs. Goodhusband had reached the car and halted, puffing, to rest one foot on the ground. "Hullo, Sally dear! How's tricks?"

"I'm fine," said Sally, interpreting this as an inquiry after her health.

Yvonne was taking time to repair damage by wind and exertion to her coiffure. She patted her hairline and tucked away errant curls before retying the headscarf.

"No more alarms and excursions?" She shook her head. "I was so sorry to hear about Hector Bodicote. He was a village character. I know he used to wander about but we'd all got used to that. I found the news about all those books in his place rather sad. I'm sure he simply was immensely curious about everything, although that doesn't excuse any of it. I suppose he was quite ancient. Tristan was very upset."

"Was he?" Sally was mildly surprised.

"Yes. Tristan's a very sensitive boy."

Sally had seen Tristan about the village and he hadn't struck her as a boy. She'd assumed him to be about twenty-eight. But to a mother's eye...

"Was that right about the books?" Yvonne was asking. "The old chap really pinched them?"

"So it seems."

"Never can tell," said Yvonne. "I managed to catch one of those journalists and told him about our action group. He wrote it down but I didn't see it in any of the papers." She prepared to cycle on. "I'm just going down to the farm for some eggs. She keeps a few hens free-range. I don't buy from the supermarket. I hope you don't! Or if you do, make sure they're free-range! You pay a little more but it's the price of peace of mind, you know."

"Yes, I will!" Sally promised hastily.

"We're marching the day after tomorrow, did you know about that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Day after tomorrow," repeated Mrs. Goodhusband help­fully. "Our little committee and supporters. I told the reporter about it and rang our local rag, too. Invited anyone who'd like to join us to come along. The more the merrier!" She indicated the basket on her bicycle and Sally noticed, which she hadn't before, that it held several rolled papers.

"Just going to tack up a few more posters while I'm out and about! We're assembling in Castle Darcy at eleven a.m. and marching in orderly procession to the battery egg-production unit where we shall make our protest. I've in­formed the police as well. Everything's quite in order. Will you be able to join us?"

"Oh, gosh!" said Sally. "I mean, I think I shall be at work at Bailey's the day after tomorrow."

"Pity. However, if you're free, come along. And don't for­get, I still want to talk to your husband!" Yvonne reminded her. "I wrote and told him so but he hasn't been in touch. Tell him, whenever is convenient!" She waved and set off again, wobbling slightly.

It wasn't likely Liam was ever going to find a meeting with Yvonne convenient, thought Sally. But she'd let them sort that out.

Yvonne stuck out her arm, combining the traffic signal with a farewell wiggle of her hand, before she wheeled off to the right and disappeared down a muddy track. Sally drove on.

Despite telling Yvonne she was fine, she became aware that she didn't feel it. She frowned and peered through the wind­shield. More than the sleepiness, a muzziness was setting in. She hoped she wasn't in for a dose of Meredith's 'flu.

Reaching Bamford she had a minor mishap at the round­about. It was such a silly thing and she'd never done anything like it before. She had looked and assumed it was clear for her to enter. She just hadn't seen the other car. It must have been there. It was very odd. It appeared, horn blaring, driver gesticulating rudely, and swept across her bows. It gave her such a start that she swerved and stalled. She was a careful driver and she didn't do that kind of thing.

She concentrated furiously after that and found she really needed to. Her mind was drifting. Figures wandered in and out in disjointed imagery. Yvonne on her bike, Bodicote with his goats, Austin with his yellow scarf flying in the breeze.

The auction rooms hove into view filling her with the kind of relief felt by travelers in the desert who'd sighted an oasis. She couldn't pretend that she was feeling other than distinctly strange as she parked. Her arms and legs seemed heavy and she moved—or felt she was moving—very slowly, like a swimmer negotiating a warm sea.

Still in the curious suspended state, she floated past Ronnie and Ted, bidding them good morning in a voice which seemed to come from a great distance. They, however, did not appear to notice anything amiss. Whatever was happening to her, and something was, it was taking place in her head.

"Morning, Mrs. Caswell..." Their sturdy figures, Ron­nie's baseball-capped, shimmered and faded into the brick­work behind them like a pair of djinns.

She proceeded to her tiny office and there made an effort to cast off the spell which enveloped her. It must be the 'flu. It had struck Meredith down and now it was going to attack her. What a nuisance. Perhaps she could get something from the pharmacist's on the way home.

She hung up her coat (not so easy because the hook moved about) and surveyed her desk. For some reason, she couldn't quite remember what it was she was supposed to do at it. She'd make a start in a minute.

"Hullo, Sal!" Austin's cheery voice broke into her reverie.

He bustled in. "Someone's brought in a load of stuff to go in the next sale. We'll have to start listing it all up. It doesn't look up to much to me. Mixed china and glassware, none of it remarkable. There are some ghastly pictures. Highland cat­tle in a mist, that sort of thing. Not even in good shape. Frames aren't even worth anything. We'll put them altogether in one lot—"

Aware that his words were falling into unresponsive space, he broke off and peered at her. "Sal? You all right?"

"I don't know." She sat down heavily on her chair. "I feel rather odd. I think I may be going down with 'flu."

Austin cupped his hands around her face and tilted it so he could stare into her eyes. She stared back at him, wishing his face didn't shimmer in that odd way.

"Your eyes look a bit odd," he said, concerned. "Perhaps you ought to go home. Can you drive?"

"Don't know."

"I'll take you."

"No," she protested. "You've got work to do."

She was aware, as she spoke, that another figure had joined them. She found it difficult to distinguish the face but the voice was Meredith's. "Is something wrong? I came to see if Sally could make lunch today."

Austin was explaining. "She thinks it may be the 'flu. But I'm not sure. Take a look at her eyes."

Meredith's face swam closer, concerned. "I see what you mean. I'll take her home. OK, Sally? We'll stop by the med­ical center. Ask a nurse to take a look at you."

That brought her out of the enveloping fog. "No! There's no need for that. I'll go home and lie down. Then I'll be all right."

"Sally?" Meredith's voice was filled with misgiving. "Sal, have you taken anything this morning? I mean, pills or any­thing?"

"No. Don't take pills. Why?"

"Just that the pupils of your eyes are dilated. How do you feel?"

"Sleepy."

"What are you going to do?" Austin asked impatiently.

Meredith reached for Sally's jacket on the hook behind them. "Leave it to me, Austin. Come on, Sally, slip your jacket on. I'll take you now. And we will stop off at the medical center and get some advice. It's on the way, for good­ness sake. Is Liam at home?"

She shook her head. "No, gone into Oxford, to the lab. Going to work there today." She spoke the words carefully, pressing her tongue, which felt too large for her mouth, against her teeth.

She stumbled as they walked to Meredith's car. Meredith caught her and bundled her into the front seat. "Take it easy." She sounded worried but Sally was past noticing.

It was all a dream world. The car had stopped. Meredith hauled her out like a bundle of washing and propelled her, gripping her by the arm, toward a building which seemed familiar. They were at the medical center. There were people everywhere, a busy morning. A faint smell of antiseptic. A nurse in a white uniform with a brisk Scots accent.

"Now, what is it, dear?"

Meredith's competent voice, explaining. "She's drowsy. Her eyes look peculiar. I don't like it. It doesn't look like any kind of 'flu to me. I want someone to take a look at her."

The nurse was speaking, something about surgery being full and none of the doctors free. If they waited until twelve—

"She can't wait until noon!" Meredith's voice, sharp with anger, broke into the fog around Sally. "For pete's sake, take a look at her yourself! You can see something's badly wrong!"

The nurse's face swam nearer. "I see what you mean. Just come around to my room for a second. "I'll see if any of the doctors can take a few minutes between appointments. Who is the lady's own doctor?"

"Pringle..." Sally mumbled, feeling she really must take some part in all this.

"Just sit down, dear. Are you on any medication?"

Sally shook her head, collapsing onto the proffered chair. The effort of walking to the nurse's room had taken it out of her. Her heart was beating in a funny jumpy way and she began to take short, rapid breaths, trying to get air into her lungs.

The nurse moved away to address Meredith. "You're a relative?"

"No, I'm a friend. I can get hold of her husband. Look, what's wrong with her?"

"Has she been like it before?"

"No, no! I've never seen her like it. What is it?"

The nurse lowered her voice. "She's not taking anything?"

"Taking? What, pills? She told you she wasn't. She told me she hadn't. I don't know for sure, of course I don't. She wouldn't lie about it, why should she?"

"I feel sick!" Sally said loudly.

They jumped round. The nurse descended. "All right, dear! Can you get over here?''

Sally was directed to a nearby sluice. She leaned over it, retching. The nurse was holding her head and calling out to a colleague to see if Dr. Pringle was free.

A dribble of foaming brackish liquid dribbled down into the sluice. The nurse peered at it. Then she grabbed the near­est kidney dish and the next time Sally fetched up the liquid, the nurse neatly caught it.

Pringle had arrived. "Hullo, Mrs. Caswell? Under the weather? Let's have a look."

A thermometer was shoved into her mouth, under her tongue. It hurt. Pringle was taking her pulse.

The thermometer was blessedly whipped away. "Mmn ... temperature's down a bit. Pulse irregular. Have you eaten this morning?"

"Breakfast..." Sally tried to remember. "Toast... tea, my tea."

"Your tea?"

Meredith broke in with, "She brews up her own herbal teas."

"Does she?" Pringle sounded startled.

The nurse said, "She brought this up." She produced the kidney tray.

Pringle frowned. "Right! I think we'll get her over to the hospital. Better safe than sorry. I'll phone and make arrange­ments." He made briskly for the door. "Find out about that tea!" he ordered the nurse.

"The tea, dear?" Nurse was bending over her, voice firm. "What is this tea you drink? Can you tell me exactly what's in it?"

"Always drink it," Sally mumbled. "Can't be my tea."

"We need to know what you've been eating and drinking this morning, dear. Now, do try and remember."

"What's wrong, for goodness sake?" Meredith hissed.

The nurse glanced up at her. "We're trying to find out! She seems to be drugged."

Sally murmured, "It smelled rather nasty..."

"What's that, dear? Your tea?"

"No, not my tea, Mr. Bod—Bodicote's tea. It smelled like—like mice."

"Do you know what she means?" Nurse turned to Mere­dith again.

"Not a clue. Bodicote was an old chap who lived next door and his place might well have had mice."

The name lodged obstinately in Sally's brain. There was something she wanted to tell them about Bodicote, she just remembered. Or rather, she'd just forgotten. She wished she could remember what it was. It might be important. Or it might not.

"I ought to tell you—" she informed them.

"What's that, Sally?" Meredith's face came closer, out of focus. "What is it you want to tell us? About the herbal tea?"

"No. About what Yvonne said. Only I can't remember what she—"

"Watch out!" Meredith cried. "She's going!"

They grabbed Sally just in time to prevent her pitching off the chair unconscious.



*13*
They took Sally by ambulance to the hospital. Meredith trav­eled with her. At the hospital, all was organized bustle. She watched with concern as Sally was wheeled away. As the trolley squeaked out of sight, a well-groomed, middle-aged Chinese woman in a white coat descended on Meredith.

"Dr. Chang." The voice, against expectations, was a broad, reassuring North country one. "We need to know what she's taken. I understand she may have drunk a home-brewed herbal tea. Have you any idea what it might be?''

Before Meredith could answer, hurrying footsteps tapped down the polished corridor and a disheveled Austin Bailey appeared, clasping a vacuum flask. His bowtie had swiveled and instead of the bow going west-east, it now stood at north­west to south-east. The effect was to make it look as if some­one had wound him up like a clock spring.

"I've left Ted in charge—what's going on? I called the medical center and they said she'd been brought here! I man­aged to get hold of Pringle and he asked me about some tea. I told him Sally always brought in a flask and he said I should bring it to you!"

Austin held out the flask and Dr. Chang seized it. "Good! We'll get it analyzed!"

"Hold on!" Meredith put out a hand as the doctor turned. "She drank more than one kind. That's her office flask. But she may have something else at home she drank at breakfast. We could ask Liam, I suppose." Doubt echoed in her voice. Liam probably wouldn't have taken heed of what his wife drank.

Austin took off his spectacles and waved them in the air. "He's in Oxford. That is, he was at the laboratory. I rang him to tell him what happened and he was leaving immedi­ately to come here."

Dr. Chang interrupted. "Is there anyone at her home who could bring in any other canisters of herbal tea for us to an­alyze?"

Meredith and Austin looked at each other.

"It is urgent!" Dr. Chang emphasized.

"Sally's keys must be in her handbag," Meredith sug­gested. "Let me have them and I'll go."

Dr. Chang hesitated. "The patient's personal belongings—it's irregular. Really I ought to wait till the husband gets here. I suppose I could...?"

"I've got a spare key to their cottage!" Austin exclaimed. "I'll go out and look for the tea!"

"You've got a business to run. Give me the key and I'll go," Meredith urged. She turned to Dr. Chang. "Tell Liam—that's Dr. Caswell—when he gets here that I've gone to fetch all the tea I can find at their cottage."

Despite the urgency of her mission there was a necessary detour to the auction rooms to collect the spare key, which Austin produced from a drawer in his desk. It had a tattered luggage label tied to it, reading "Sally's key."

"I'll bring it back, Austin," Meredith promised, grabbing it unceremoniously from his hand.

He took off his spectacles and blinked shortsightedly at her. "I am really very worried. Sally is a dear person. Very dear to me. Besides, we've been discussing..."

There really wasn't time for this. "Later, Austin, all right?"

She hurried from his office and drove at a reckless pace to Castle Darcy.

The kitchen was neat and tidy and the pottery jars stood where they always had. Meredith glanced quickly inside each one. Strange-looking dried leaves of various kinds, the teas. She looked around and saw a woven wicker shopping basket in the corner. She stacked the tea caddies in it and hesitated. Her impulse was to rush off back to the hospital with her booty, but it was important not to overlook any. She opened the kitchen cupboards but they revealed no more teas. She was about to leave when her eye fell on the waste bin.

There was a battered margarine tub in it, lying on its side, and spilling from it a crushed mixture of dried vegetation.

Meredith stooped and picked it out carefully. Most of what it had contained had spilled out into the bin. But there was enough left in the bottom of the tub for analysis. She sniffed. "Phew!" she muttered. It wasn't like Sally to keep her tea in such a makeshift container nor did any other of the teas smell so fusty. But hadn't Sally mumbled something about Bodicote and a tea? Meredith picked the lid out of the garbage in the bin and fixed it carefully on the tub. Satisfied now that she'd found all there was to find, she hurried outside to her car.


Back at the hospital, Meredith handed over her collection of tubs and inquired anxiously after Sally.

"Mrs. Caswell will be all right," she was assured. "Es­pecially now we can hope to find out what she drank."

Meredith retired to the waiting area and the public phones. After a hunt for a twenty-pence piece, she called Regional HQ.

"Alan? I'm at the hospital, not the Cottage, the Alice King. What? No, I'm fine! It's not me, it's Sally." Interrupting an­other cry of alarm at the other end of the line, she went on hurriedly. "They tell me she's going to be all right. She seems to have drunk some kind of herbal tea which made her ill. I thought you'd want to know. Liam's been informed, I understand." As she spoke, her gaze caught a familiar figure.

"He's here," she said. "I'll see you later." She hung up.

Liam had seen her and approached, looking bewildered and irritated in equal measure.

"They're pumping her out!" he said disbelievingly.

"They say she's going to be fine, don't worry, Liam," Meredith consoled him.

"Why did she drink the wretched witch's brew? I told her time and time again about that stuff she makes up." He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Now I've got to hang about here. What a place!" He cast a dismissive glance at his surroundings. "I can't stick hospitals," he added. "Too many people."

"Tough!" said Meredith unfeelingly, which made him blink. "I dare say Sally's disliking them even more at the moment!"

"Right..." he mumbled.


When Meredith returned that evening, she found Liam crouched by his wife's bedside. Sally looked pale and drawn but, to Meredith's relief, appeared to have come out of the drugged haze.

"Bloody Bodicote!" said Liam briefly, glancing at Mere­dith but dispensing with any formal greeting. He clasped his hands and scowled.

"How are you feeling, Sally?" Meredith took a seat by the bed.

"I feel," Sally whispered, "as if I'd been put through one of those old-fashioned laundry mangles. But I'm all right now, so they tell me. I've you to thank, Meredith. You in­sisted we go to the medical center on the way home. I didn't want to bother. I thought I was going down with 'flu, like you."

"Yes, thanks," Liam said awkwardly.

"It was Austin who first noticed you weren't well and drew my attention to it. Perhaps you ought to thank him, too, Liam?"

Liam was saved from replying by a nurse, who looked in and called, "Patients' mealtime soon. Visitors, can you leave now?"

"I suppose they haven't had a chance to analyze all the teas yet? Or have they?" Meredith kept her gaze fixed on Liam, who looked very like a small boy being carpeted for a misdemeanor involving a catapult. She'd quelled more awk­ward opponents than Liam in her time and her motto was, once you've got 'em on the run, keep 'em running!

Liam muttered, "That crazy old man, Bodicote, gave Sal some herbal brew or other and she was daft enough to drink it this morning after I left!"

So there! he might have added, but didn't.

"Don't keep on, Liam!" Sally protested weakly from the pillows. "If it was Bodicote's, then it was a mistake. Bodicote must have picked something in error."

Liam got to his feet. "I've got to go back to the lab. I left in a rush and all my papers are there. I'll be back after din­ner."

He leaned forward and dabbed a kiss on his wife's fore­head. Meredith noticed that as he did so, she turned her head aside, away from him.

When he'd gone Sally grimaced. "Liam's cross because Bodicote gave me this tub of some dried leaves, a tea. It was just before he died. I put it with my own pots of herbs and left it. I didn't have the heart to throw it out, not after what happened. This morning I had a bit of a headache, so I thought I'd try it. It smelled unpleasant and didn't taste too nice so I just drank the one mugful and binned the rest. But it seemed to work, too. The headache went. Unfortunately, everything else went too, after a bit."

"I found it. Dr. Chang has it now."

Sally essayed a smile. "Good job you're so thorough, Mer­edith."

There was a movement at the door and someone else en­tered the room. They both looked up to see Alan Markby.

"Thought I'd call and see how you are, Sally." His gaze held Meredith's briefly. He leaned his hands on the metal bar at the end of the bed, and smiled down at the patient. "So? Feeling better?"

"Better-ish. Not so dopey, anyway. Still on the lethargic side."

"That's better. Nasty experience for you. Take it easy, eh?"

"Can't do anything else, not in here. Thank you for coming in, both of you." Sally lifted a limp hand and waved.

Meredith got up. "The nurse will be back again in a minute to chase us out, so we'd better go. I'll come back again."

Outside in the corridor, Alan asked, "How's Liam?"

Meredith pulled a wry expression. "Still grumbling. Blam­ing Bodicote. I think he's gone back to his lab. He'll be com­ing again to see her tonight. You'd think he'd forget about his wretched work for one day in the circumstances!" Her exasperation with Liam was obvious.

"Thank you for calling me, by the way."

"Thought you'd want to know. I'd better go over to the auction rooms now and tell Austin she's all right. I'll give him back Sally's spare key. I promised I'd return it."

Alan looked at her curiously. "Austin has a spare key to the Caswell place?"

"For emergencies, I suppose. My next door neighbor has mine. You've also got mine, come to that! Have you spoken to the doctor here?''

"Not yet." Markby glanced down the corridor. "I believe she's waiting for me. I got in touch with her after you called me. Dr. Chang, the hospital toxicologist."

"You don't suspect this was anything other than a mistake? That Sally was poisoned?" Meredith's voice rose in horror.

"Keep your voice down. Poison is a loose term. Otherwise harmless substances taken in excess can be poisonous. In this case we know she took, probably accidentally, some harmful drug. By that token, yes, she was poisoned."

A nurse was approaching. "Are you Superintendent Markby? Dr. Chang's waiting for you."

Markby squeezed Meredith's arm. "See you later."

"Sure." She watched him walk away in the wake of the nurse.

"Superintendent?" Dr. Chang greeted him. "Glad to see you. Incidentally, I'm glad someone thought to call the police. Otherwise I'd have done so." She pointed at a chair. "Have a seat. Have you seen the patient?"

"Yes," Markby took the seat indicated. "She seems weak but fine."

"She's lucky to be alive," Dr. Chang said without undue emotion.

"What was it?"

"Conium maculatum. Hemlock."

He stared at her, astonished. "What?"

"The stuff the Greeks gave Socrates to drink," she ex­plained helpfully.

But his silence had nothing to do with failing to identify the plant. Rather, it was due to an image which formed in his head. Frost-blackened umbelliferae growing around a clogged disused garden pond. One of them, he was almost ready to swear, had been hemlock. But if it grew in Yvonne's garden, the seeds had come in from the surrounding countryside. The stuff probably grew all over Castle Darcy.

Dr. Chang was expounding. "It's highly toxic even in a small dose. She was exhibiting all the classic symptoms, di­lated pupils, poor coordination, temperature down, pulse jumpy. I've made a study of medicinal herbs. Hemlock was used as a medicine in the ancient world by the Arabs, Greeks, Romans ... It's still occasionally used in some preparations. But it's a very dangerous thing and tricky. Best avoided. For­tunately, once we knew she'd drunk some form of herbal tea, we had little trouble. These toxic herbs are fairly easy to identify. As I say, I've had previous experience of them. I can't say I've had a hemlock poisoning for a while, though!" She smiled cheerfully at him.

"It was in her flask?"

"Oh no, it was in a margarine tub, in a mix of dried herbs. Rather an unsavory mix. I understand an elderly neighbor gave it to her. She was very unwise to sample it."

"You've still got it? You haven't disposed of it? I'll need it!"

"I still have it and haven't quite finished with it. I need a botanist to look at it. As I said, I've some experience, but I need to be sure. It's not a pure mix."

She went to a nearby shelf and returned with a battered margarine tub. She took the lid off and held it out to him where he sat.

A collection of crushed herbs lay in the bottom. "Some of this is undoubtedly quite harmless," Dr. Chang observed. "I think I recognize feverfew and sage. The quantity of hemlock may be quite small."

Markby said slowly, "Don't take me wrong on this, Dr. Chang, but this needs to be kept secure."

"It will be, never fear." She replaced the lid. "Look, Su­perintendent, I don't want to start a hare..."

Markby looked up at her. "If there's anything else, I need to know."

"Exactly. I've had a little chat with the patient. She tells me she's had spells of lethargy, dizziness and nausea before. She put it down to stress. The attacks, if one can call them that, stretch back about six months to last summer. She's wor­ried now that it's been caused by her tea, that is to say, one of her own concoctions. We'll take a look at her tea, naturally, although the brew in the flask was perfectly harmless. I think we'll be able to confirm it was this present from a neighbor which has caused all the trouble."

Dr. Chang raised the margarine tub. "It's not unusual for old country remedies to contain quite dangerous substances. People are interested these days in traditional medicines but, unfortunately, many haven't inherited the skills and knowl­edge to use them safely. Perhaps we, or you, can ask the old gentleman about this mix of his. Above all, warn him not to drink it himself!"

"Unfortunately," said Markby, "we can't."



*14*
A crisp, diamond-bright morning, the sort which cleared the head and charged the batteries. Alan Markby walked into the building, whistling. Heads turned and expressive glances were exchanged.

"You're cheerful this morning," observed Pearce.

He was disconcerted when the superintendent appeared to take that casual remark as a serious comment, considering it, turning it this way and that in his mind, before finally coming up with a reply. "Not so much cheerful, Dave, as optimistic."

"Right," said Pearce doubtfully.

Markby clasped his hands on his desk and beamed at him. "The hemlock, that was a mistake."

"She drank it by mistake?"

"Brush the cobwebs away!" Markby reproached him. "It was a mistake on the part of whoever has been conducting this campaign of violence against the Caswells. We've all been led up the garden path, that's what!"

"So what are we going to do?" The wary Pearce still wasn't quite sure he saw where Markby was headed.

"We're going to talk to everyone again. I do mean every­one! They are all of them sitting on information. There is something they are not telling us. Whatever it is, it's been making an unholy alliance of the most unlikely set of people. But they will all find that I don't take kindly to being messed around!" Markby jabbed the air to emphasize the point.

"Prescott can take Whelan. When he's finished there, he can go on into Bamford and chat with Austin Bailey. You can take the Goodhusbands, mother and son."

Pearce groaned. "And don't let Yvonne run rings around you. Someone can ring that Norwich laboratory and find out more about the research program which has been going on down there in conjunction with the Oxford lab. And I," Markby said, reaching for the telephone, "will take Liam Caswell."


A call to Castle Darcy went unanswered. Markby tried Liam's laboratory and was rewarded with a suspicious female voice asking what it could do for him. He asked for Dr. Caswell.

"Dr. Caswell is a very busy man. Besides, he doesn't come in every day. Who's asking for him?"

"Superintendent Markby, regional crime squad." An au­dible intake of breath at the other end of the line. "I know he's got a lot on his mind at the moment but I need to speak to him and he's not at home."

"He'll be at the hospital!" The note of reproof in the voice was unmistakable. "His wife had to be rushed in. But he did ring to let us know he'd be coming on here afterwards. I believe about eleven."

"Fine, when he gets there, tell him I'll be along later to see him."

Silence at the other end. Eventually, "Come to the front office first." The phone was put down on him.

"That's put the cat among the pigeons!" Markby muttered happily to himself. There was no pleasure like the pleasure of stirring up trouble for someone who'd been an irritation for some time. Small revenges are sweet.


The crisp early morning had developed into a day which was sunny and surprisingly mild. That was English weather for you. One moment it froze your toes and the next it tantalized with unseasonal springlike temperatures. Only imagine, it was nearly Christmas. A mere five weeks away. It didn't feel like it. Some of the shops had decorated windows with holly and images of Santa Claus. But there was a lack of seasonal feel. Markby wondered whether this was just because he was get­ting older. Christmas was a time for children, eagerly looked forward to and savored. Now he just saw it as a time when he had to write all those cards.

When tourists came to visit Oxford's dreaming spires they didn't have in mind the sort of building which housed Liam's workplace. It lurked on a trading estate to the east of the city. Even beneath today's pale sun, the estate appeared wind­swept, uniform and workaday. Low-rise office blocks alter­nated with ugly prefabricated warehousing. The dull exteriors were enlivened with garish plaques each announcing the name of the business within. Before each unit patches of turf which had been intended as a green break to the eye had been re­duced by wear to trampled rectangles of dried mud dotted with clumps of coarse grass and weeds. The trees which had been planted at the same time as the turf laid, survived only as spindly sticks.

People, thought Markby, spent their entire working lives commuting to and from this place. Hard-working, ambitious, intelligent people, many of them. They started with enthusi­asm and ideas and they slowly atrophied here, like the grass and trees.

At the estate's very farthest point from the main road lay the laboratories. They, too, were long, single-story prefabri­cated buildings of post-war vintage. Markby's professional eye judged them to be difficult to render secure. Little wonder Michael Whelan and his companions had chosen to make a raid on them. Break a window, put your hand through, twid­dle a catch and you were in. New-looking burglar alarms, little blue boxes, had been fitted. But they were tokens. By the time anyone answered their shrill call, any raider would be in and out again.

Oddly enough, the building facing Markby was a crum­bling early Victorian house, obviously predating all the sur­rounding buildings. It had fallen on evil times. Unpainted, with cracks in the cornices and a suspicious droop to the lintel of the upper-storey left window, its downstairs windows were disguised by modern sunblinds. A plaque on the door announced this to contain the administration offices.

Markby entered and found himself facing the owner of the suspicious telephone voice.

It belonged to a middle-aged woman, very tall, very thin and ramrod straight. She was dressed in a khaki-colored knit­ted suit and plainly tailored beige blouse relieved by a single string of pearls. Her hair was cut very short, graying and bristly. He suppressed an urge to salute her.

"Ah, Superintendent," she said, disapproval in no way mitigated by the sight of him. "Dr. Caswell arrived a few minutes ago. I told him you were on your way. He's in Block A. Just go around this building and you'll see it, straight ahead." Her hand dropped to the desk. "You'll need this."

She wore a wedding ring. Markby tried to imagine what manner of man might be married to this martinet. She handed him a small plastic envelope with a clip attached. Inside the envelope was a square of paper announcing, Temporary Vis­itor.

"Sign here in the book for it, would you? Put the date and the time of day, if you please."

"Thank you," said Markby. He complied with instructions, noting that he was the first person that day to be issued with such a visitor's badge. A quick glance at the facing page showed that only three had been issued the day before. He attached it to his jacket with some difficulty. The spring clip was awkward.

The guardsman watched his endeavors with a pained for­bearance. "You'll need to return that pass, Superintendent, when you leave. It is, as you see, numbered. We keep careful track of all passes."

He promised to do so.

"We used not to have to bother with such things," she said sadly. "But since last year, when we had some unpleas­antness, we've updated our security."

A plastic envelope with a card in it wouldn't deter the likes of Whelan's cohorts. But such things, together with the shiny new burglar alarms, clearly made the woman feel safer. The insurers, too, he thought, would have insisted. The insurance cover on the building would be jeopardized if they couldn't show they'd at least tried.

"You were here, then, when the animal rights protesters broke in?"

"Not here," she corrected. "Not on the premises. They came at night. But I was an employee. I've worked here sev­enteen years. They did such a lot of damage. Broke windows and doorlocks, made such a mess over in the labs. I'm fond of animals myself but I couldn't condone such antics. I know vandals and hooligans when I see their handiwork." She sat down, dismissing him. He wheeled and marched out.

After acquiring his pass (numbered, signed for and to be re­turned), entering Block A was easy. He just opened the door. The updated security system had a long way to go. Facing him was a long corridor with a waxed floor. The internal partitions were flimsily constructed of plywood and glass and the murmur of voices, the rattle of receptacles and even the throaty hiss and roar of a Bunsen burner were all distinguish­able.

Markby stood hesitantly by the door, wondering where to find Liam. His dilemma was solved when a young woman, working with her eye to a microscope in a cubicle to his right, looked up and spotted him through the glass partition. She immediately shot out and stood square in front of him, block­ing any possible progress.

"Who are you?" she asked sharply and with a marked accent.

She was small but sturdily built. Her shoulder-length russet hair framed a heart-shaped face with an unblemished tawny skin. It was her eyes, however, which commanded admiration, green and dark-lashed, scrutinizing Markby with scarcely veiled hostility. Her white coat was unbuttoned over a figure-hugging cream pullover, short scarlet leather skirt and black tights disappearing into snug black boots.

Some intricate piece of jewelry on a leather thong around her neck took his attention. In pattern it resembled a pre-Colombian carved panel, Aztec, Mayan, Incan. He couldn't distinguish between the arts of these ancient peoples. It was a maze of intertwining ropes or, Markby wasn't sure, snakes. The whole design led to its center where a grotesque stylized bird's head with a gleaming ruby eye fixed the observer. Like its wearer it was striking but a little alarming.

"Yes, yes, you!" she repeated. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Markby found himself taking refuge in indicating his Vis­itor's Pass. "I'm looking for Dr. Caswell."

"Why do you wish to see him?"

It was time to tackle this firecracker head-on and establish some sort of authority. "I'll discuss that with Dr. Caswell. He is expecting me. Can you direct me to him?"

Her arched brows puckered, emphasizing the extraordinary power of the green eyes. "He's very busy. He has not told me he is expecting you. When have you made this appoint­ment?" The disbelief in her voice was daunting.

"Look, er, Miss..." Markby, in his turn, leaned forward to study her plastic envelope, pinned to her white coat. It brought him closer to the jewel bird-snake and its cruel red eye. "Marita Muller" read the pass.

"Miss Muller. I really can't stand here chatting with you, I'm afraid..."

"I am not chatting!" she said scornfully. "I am busy. We are all busy. Well, if you must see him, you must!"

She turned neatly on a booted heel and marched off down the waxed corridor. He followed meekly.

They fetched up before a door which she tapped and im­mediately opened. "Liam? There is a policeman." She hunched her shoulders in derision. Clearly civilian garb hadn't disguised his profession.

"Oh, right, thanks, Marita." Liam appeared. "Markby, I was expecting you. The front office phoned through. It's all right, Marita." He ushered Miss Muller back into the corridor. There was a brief whispered exchange between them. Markby raised his eyebrows and seated himself in an avail­able chair.

Liam's desk was cluttered with papers and the screen of his computer covered with script. A quick read told Markby nothing. He couldn't make head or tail of any of it.

Liam returned, closing the door. "Marita's over-protective," he explained. "But everyone is warned to stop and question any unknown face. We've got security-conscious. It started after last year's raid and the explosive package I received has made everything worse, to say nothing of the abusive mail. It was a damn near thing, that package. Poor Sal hasn't got over it and the last thing she needed was what happened yesterday."

"I went to the hospital last night, after Meredith rang me." Markby hoped the tinge of reproof in his voice would be picked up by Liam, who ought to have done the informing.

But Liam was impervious to delicate shades of criticism. "How is Mrs. Caswell today?"

"She said you'd been. She's a lot better, quite chipper. You do realize now we're dealing with a bunch of maniacs? Every­one here's very nervous in case the nutters, whoever they are, decide to strike at someone else on the staff next. They mean to get one of us. They'd have got me, if Sal hadn't opened the package."

He paused. "It was a fluke I didn't open it. If you don't get whoever's behind it soon, I can tell you, there are going to be a lot of complaints going to high places, and they won't all be from me!"

Being threatened with a higher authority didn't worry Markby, although he did resort, a little unworthily, to a dig of his own. "Striking young lady, that." He nodded toward the door. "An overseas student?"

Liam blinked. "One of our exchange post-graduate stu­dents," he said tersely. "We have quite a few. From the old eastern block, mostly. But I think I've told you about this before." Thus Liam terminated what he evidently saw as so­cial chit-chat. "Look here," he said aggressively, "it's time you lot got things sorted out."

"I agree!" Markby told him. "Now, Dr. Chang tells me that Sally drank some tea given to her by your neighbor."

Liam snorted. "Crazy old coot. He was, quite seriously, mad. Look at all those books they found in his place."

Markby steered him back to the matter in hand. "Let's stick to this tea business. It was in a margarine tub. Do you recall the occasion when he gave it to her?"

"Yes. She came from the garden with it. Recently, just before he died. She should have chucked it out. I warned her about trading with the enemy. He never forgave us that busi­ness with the turnips, you know. You heard about that? Sal gave some to his blasted goats. It didn't make them ill but made the milk taste funny. Who wants goat's milk anyway, I ask you? He raised the dickens of a hoo-hah, vindictive old sod. She didn't do it on purpose. We should have known he'd plot some lunatic revenge!"

"Just a minute," Markby interrupted the other's irate flow. "Are you saying that the late Hector Bodicote intended to administer a toxic substance to your wife by way of revenge for what he saw as an attack on his animals?"

"Of course he bloody did!"

"Isn't that unreasonable, Dr. Caswell? It would be fool­hardy. Such a substance would be traced immediately back to him."

"And he'd say it was all a mistake. He was crafty. These old country people are. Cunning as foxes."

"He wanted to kill her?" Markby persisted.

Liam hesitated. "Probably not. No, not kill, just make her very ill—the way he thought she'd made his goats. Only they weren't ill. They enjoyed the turnips and suffered no ill-effects themselves. It was only their milk affected and that only temporarily."

"Drinking the tea might well have resulted in your wife's death had Meredith not taken Mrs. Caswell to the medical center and insisted she be examined. She could easily have crashed her car under its influence!" Markby insisted.

"Bodicote wouldn't think about that!" said Liam briefly.

Markby sighed. "Well, Bodicote is dead and we can't ask him about it. It's still a very serious accusation, Dr. Caswell. Can you substantiate it in any way, other than by conjec­ture?"

Liam exploded into words, waving his arms, his voice ris­ing and no doubt audible all over the building. "Typical! That's all I've got from you since this started! Nothing but sneers and skepticism! What need is there to substantiate a box of poisoned tea which exists? It'll be back at the cottage in the kitchen."

"No," Markby said sharply. "It's at the hospital in the capable hands of Dr. Chang, the toxicologist. As, indeed, are all the other canisters of herbal tea in the kitchen. All will be checked."

Liam froze. "It is? Good. Well, then. You've seen it for yourself! Yes, Dr. Chang ought to check the lot. There's no knowing what Bodicote did."

"Surely," Markby asked curiously, "you saw that all the tea canisters were missing from your kitchen? Meredith went out and collected them, right after taking Sally to the hospital. She borrowed a key kept at Bailey and Bailey's."

"Yes, of course. Look, I've had other things on my mind!" Liam's irritability didn't disguise his momentary confusion.

"I rang your cottage this morning!" Markby said sharply. "No one answered."

"I went to the hospital."

"It was early."

Liam threw up his hands. "All right! I didn't go home last night. I knew I had to go to the hospital this morning and I wanted to come on here afterwards. There seemed no point in trekking out to Castle Darcy. A colleague here kindly gave me a bed for the night in Oxford."

"I don't know why, Dr. Caswell, you are always so reluc­tant to provide the police with information of any nature," Markby said wearily. "It does make our task so much more difficult. You appear to take the attitude that we're prying into your private affairs."

"You are!" said Liam shortly.

"Of course we are! It's an official investigation!" Markby's control finally snapped. Liam looked startled. Markby drew a deep breath and began again.

"I understand that, apart from the incident with the turnips, Mrs. Caswell and Mr. Bodicote got along reasonably well. The odd tiff doesn't make someone decide to plan a serious attack."

Liam flung both arms in the air. "You're so damn narrow-minded, you haven't an ounce of imagination! Call this an investigation? You coppers, you see everything in straight lines! It doesn't occur to you, I suppose, that Bodicote may have intended his poisonous brew for me!"

It certainly hadn't occurred to Markby. His puzzlement must have shown on his face because Liam went on, "Thought so! If you ask me, that's just what it was! Sally's being taken ill was a—a by-product, if you like. He meant to make me ill!"

"How on earth," Markby's temper was beginning to fray, "could he think it would do that? You don't drink the herbal teas!"

Liam pushed his bearded face close. "He didn't know that, though, did he?"

He straightened up and whirled around, snatching up a vacuum flask from the desk behind them. "See this? Sal makes up two of these, every morning before she leaves for Bailey's. Mine holds coffee and hers contains her herbal mishmash. But Bodicote didn't know that, did he? He looked into my study and saw a flask on the table and thought to himself that it contained the same tea as Sal put in hers. He did that, snoop. Peer through windows. I caught him several times. He always reckoned he'd come to fetch back one of the straying goats. If you ask me, he let the goats through deliberately so that he had an excuse to prowl around our cottage."

"All the same—"

Markby wasn't allowed to finish. Liam had taken the bit between his teeth. "I'll tell you something else, too! The old man snooped inside the cottage. You saw how he wandered in the night you came, after the explosion? When we first came to live there, he did that often. Just marched in when he felt like it. We had a few rows and I told him to stay out! But he still sneaked in when he thought I was busy in the study. Always an excuse if he was caught. You have no idea, Superintendent, of what I've suffered on account of that old man!"

Markby leaned back in his spindly plastic chair. "Who else has access to your cottage, apart from yourself, Mrs. Caswell and Austin Bailey, who keeps a spare key at his auction rooms? Why?"

"Sal felt someone ought to have a key. Austin's not a neighbor but when you look at the neighbors we've got out at Castle Darcy, you can see why we didn't leave a spare emergency key with any of them! Austin keeps one in case Sal loses hers while she's out of the place or we're away on holiday and someone needs to go in. During the day, provided one of us is at home, the rest of Castle Darcy's got access, if you like. The back door is an old-fashioned lock with an external handle. The big old Chubb key stays permanently in the lock on the inside. We open it in the morning and fasten it when we go to bed—unless we both go away from the village. It wouldn't be practical to keep turning it back and forth all day like a jailer!" Liam snorted. "Although, perhaps it would be prudent after this!"

"I'd like to refresh my memory of the layout of your kitchen myself. Its position vis-a-vis Bodicote's land. What can be seen from the window? What could Bodicote see from his hedge? That sort of thing. Would you object to my bor­rowing the key Austin Bailey holds? I believe Meredith has returned it to him. Or you could come with me to the cottage now, if you prefer to be there."

Liam stared at him. "Go and get the key off Austin, if you must."

"Then perhaps you'd give him a call and authorize it."

"Bureaucracy!" Liam put a hand to his forehead. "This is a nightmare. Yes, I'll phone Austin. I'll phone him right away."

Markby got to his feet. "By the way, when you had the break-in here last year, the intruders wanted to release some beagles. Where are the animals in question now? I'd quite like to see them."

Liam bared his teeth triumphantly. "You can't, they've gone. There were only half a dozen of them. We moved them out after the raid. We'd about finished that program anyway. Don't keep any animals here now."

"Moved out where?" Markby was fairly sure the beagles would have been put down. But he wanted to see how Liam would react to being asked, and how he'd phrase his answer. Would Liam brazen it out or become surly and defensive? He'd offered no justification for their use, presumably because he believed he owed none, certainly not to a layman like Markby. But perversely Markby wanted to hear one, just the same.

As expected, Liam rightly read the question as a challenge and glowered. But a diversion saved him from the need to answer.

An imperious rap heralded Marita Muller. She fixed the intruder with snapping green eyes and a toss of the russet mane. "Dr. Caswell is needed on the telephone!"

Liam relaxed and allowed himself a faint smirk. He knew he'd cheated his visitor of an argument. He leaned back and allowed the center of attention to move to the combative fig­ure of his assistant.

"All right," Markby told Marita, a trifle irritably. "I'm going."

You could hear nearly everything in this place, with its flimsy plywood and glass partitions, but he hadn't heard the ring of a telephone.

He took a final, frustrated, verbal swipe at Liam, before stomping out. "You're well protected."

"Need to be," said Liam sarcastically. "All kinds of cranks around."


"Hullo, Markby," Austin Bailey said nervously. "One of your people has been over to see me. A bruiser of a young fellow, quite alarming."

"Sergeant Prescott. I've come for Caswell's key. I under­stand Meredith returned it last night and Caswell should've phoned through and authorized my borrowing of it."

Bailey rummaged in a desk drawer. "Yes, he did. Here..." He produced the key.

Markby took it and read the crumpled label. "This is al­ways tied to it? Reading 'Sally's key' like this?"

"Yes, why not? I've got a drawer full of keys. I need something to tell me what they all are." In support of his words, Austin pulled the drawer right out and indicated a jumble of contents, including several keys, all with labels at­tached. Some were housekeys, others appeared to be furniture keys or security keys of some kind.

"What on earth do you do with all those?" Markby asked.

"Very handy," Austin assured him. "You'd be surprised how many old pieces of furniture, for example, turn up here locked and the key lost. Quite often I've found a key to fit. Or if I can make good a missing key to a little Victorian money-box, say, it just adds a touch of interest to it." He pushed in the drawer. "Look, what's going on? I couldn't tell that sergeant anything. To be frank, I wasn't going to discuss my business with him. It's hardly relevant!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Austin!" Markby told him cheer­ily. "The oddest things can be relevant!"

Bailey flushed and pushed his spectacles up his nose with his index finger. "Nothing I know has the slightest thing to do with all this! And look here," he added doggedly. "I really did object to the very personal line he took with his questions."

Markby was still turning Sally's key in his fingers. "How long have you held this here, Austin?"

"Oh, since last summer, I suppose."

"And always kept it in that drawer?"

"Always." Austin was growing uneasy. "It's quite safe here."

"Ever had cause to use it yourself?"

Austin's face turned a startling puce. "That, if I may say so, is a damn insulting question!"


The Yale key turned easily in the front door. Markby pushed it open and stepped into the little hallway, closing the door carefully behind him.

Liam's study was to the left. He walked in and looked around it. The Caswells read The Daily Telegraph. There was a jettisoned copy in a wastepaper basket. So did a goodly proportion of the middle-class population. Markby went to the window which gave onto the back garden. There was a good view of the Caswells' own patch, but it was difficult to see over into Bodicote's. As Liam had rightly said, the goat-house, at the far end of Bodicote's paddock, was invisible from here.

The sitting room contained nothing of interest. In the kitchen, all was neat and tidy except for the waste bin which looked as if a large animal had rummaged in it. So it had, in a manner of speaking. Meredith seeking Bodicote's tub. The back door was fastened from the inside and the cumbersome key was in the lock, just as Liam had told him it would be. From this window, the view was similar to that from the study window: the Caswell garden and a closer view of the hedge dividing this plot from the next, Bodicote's. Markby could see the brass bedhead which had fallen to allow Jasper through on the fateful day. He turned the Chubb key anti­clockwise to open the back.door and stepped outside.

A garden, any garden, always took his interest. Markby gazed a little wistfully down the length of this one, before walking to the hedge, where he paused by the bedhead and turned to look back. He could see into the Caswell kitchen, surprisingly well. To see into Caswell's study meant walking away from the hedge and up to the window. Markby, nose pressed against the pane, observed the computer, desk, phone, chair, a bookcase. This was what Bodicote himself had seen on the morning of the explosion, when he'd come to inves­tigate in his cautious way.

Dr. Chang would have wished to question Bodicote about the herbal tea. Markby himself would have liked to question Bodicote about a number of things.

As it was, the only being left who might be said to know Bodicote's mind was Jasper. And the best of lawyers couldn't cross-examine a goat.

He locked up the cottage and took the key back to Austin who made great show of putting it away, this time, in his safe.

Markby hoped it wasn't a case of locking the stable door.



*15*
"Your husband rang, Mrs. Caswell."

Sister stood by the entry to the ward, crisply efficient. "He says he'll call by and take you home, if you wish."

"This morning?" Sally was surprised. She had been for a bath and pulled her wrap tightly around her. It wasn't cold in the hospital corridor, but she wasn't used to standing around in a semi-public area, dressed in a nightgown and slippers, while equally informally clad strangers moved around her.

"Dr. Chang says there's no reason why you shouldn't be discharged. How are you feeling? Did you eat any break­fast?" Sister had a nannyish way with her.

"I had some cereal and milk," Sally lied. They had brought her a bowl of Weetabix on a tray, but when no one was looking, she'd scraped the mushed pulp into a plastic bag which she'd hidden in her sponge bag, to be disposed of when convenient. The very idea of eating made her want to throw up.

An elderly woman was wheeled past in a chair. The sight prompted Sally's conscience. "I think," she said, "that I should like to leave. You've all been very kind, but I expect you need the bed."

"We do," Sister confessed. "You won't be drinking any more of that herbal tea of yours, will you? Not for a while, anyway. Stick to milk or just water, is my advice, until your system has properly settled down. And don't ever drink any herbal mixture that isn't prepared by an expert or that you haven't made yourself from a source you're sure is safe! Ac­cepting gifts when you don't know what's in them isn't a good idea."

"Don't worry!" Sally promised. "I've learned my les­son!"

She wondered whether Sister knew about the letter-bomb, or whether her last words had been uttered in unconscious irony.

In truth, Sally wasn't sorry to leave the hospital. She didn't like such places. She had slept badly and wanted to be at home. Liam arrived shortly after ten. They drove back to Cas­tle Darcy in comparative silence. She'd been afraid he might start lecturing her about Bodicote, but he scrupulously avoided the subject. She wondered if either Dr. Chang or Sister had told him to keep off it for fear of upsetting her.

The mild turn to the weather had brought numerous wild­life out into the open. There were rabbits on the roadside banks, unperturbed by the passing car as they nibbled dry tussocks of grass and the greener leaves of surviving hedge­row plants. Birds fluttered about the bare twigs above and hopped about on the ground, seeking any hidden bounty among the roots. Cattle and horses had again been turned out into the fields. They passed the two beautiful horses she'd seen before. One black and the other chestnut. They made her think of Black Beauty and the doomed Ginger in Anna Sewell's famous book.

The silence led to a strained atmosphere, nonetheless. Sally took a pocket mirror from her bag and peeped surreptitiously at her pale, tense reflection. Liam, observing her, was moved to try and lighten things.

"Lovely day. Can hardly think it's nearly Christmas."

"How," she asked, pushing the mirror back into the bag, "can I be expected to think about Christmas? I can't think about anything. Life's just a nightmare."

"You're still feeling iffy. When you get home, go to bed. I'll fix you up some lunch later."

The new caring Liam was worse than the old grumbling one. "I don't want lunch, thanks. I don't think I'll ever eat again. You don't have to stay home with me, Liam. I'll man­age. It would be best if you went back to Oxford and got some work done."

He was going to argue but a glance at her frozen profile changed his mind.

"Whatever you want," he said.

Whatever I want, she thought. When have I ever had or done what I wanted? She'd been brought up to believe that one should not be selfish. Always be willing to accommodate the wishes of others. What that doesn't prepare you for, she thought bitterly, is the selfishness of others. But it was wrong, foolish, to blame her upbringing. She should have realized the flaws in its precepts years ago, ditched them all, and learned to fight for her own corner. Was it too late now?

They were at the outskirts of the village. Liam took the car around a bend and, with an exclamation of alarm followed by an oath, slammed on the brakes.

They squealed to a halt. Sally, propelled forward, was saved by her seatbelt, and by throwing out her hand to grasp the dashboard.

"Look at that!" Liam struck his hand on the steering wheel. "What the devil is going on here now?"

The road ahead was filled with a motley band of people. Chief among these was Yvonne Goodhusband in slacks, Barbour and trilby hat. Across the Barbour was stretched a sash, in the manner of a beauty queen, only this read "Organizer."

Being organized by Yvonne were several followers rec­ognizable as villagers and several who most definitely were not. These tended to be young and rather scruffy. There were a few young mums with bewildered tots in pushchairs. Tristan was there, holding one end of a banner emblazoned "A BIRD IN THE OPEN IS WORTH TWO IN A CAGE." The other end of the banner was held in wavering fashion by a cadaverous man with long hair swept back from a receding forehead.

All of these were quite put in the shade by the chicken. It had a large, globular, bright yellow, foam body. Its head, a smaller ball, wobbled uncertainly atop the big yellow ball. Below, it was supported by legs in wrinkly yellow tights and yellow-painted tennis shoes. From the foam ball, through holes, protruded arms in yellow knitted sleeves and gloves which waved in jovial greeting at the car. There was a slit toward the top of the larger ball forming the body through which whoever was inside this curious monster could see where he, or she, was going.

"They've all taken leave of their senses!" gasped Liam.

"No, they haven't," said Sally, remembering. "It's the march to the battery unit. Yvonne told me about it."

On cue, Mrs. Goodhusband descended on the car and beamed through the windshield at its occupants. "Good morning!" she bawled.

Sally wound down the window. Yvonne came around to crouch by it and address them more moderately through the gap. "Glad to see you back again, my dear. You do seem to be having a run of bad luck. Quite recovered, I trust? And hullo, there, Dr. Caswell! We meet at last. A bit like Stanley and Livingstone, eh?"

"No," said Liam discouragingly.

She was undeterred. "We must have our little chat."

"No," said Liam again.

"Any time it's convenient. I told your wife!"

"Look here," said Liam, leaning across his wife to speak to her. "You're blocking the road. That's an offence."

"Oh, the police are here, escorting us!" Yvonne indicated a white police car in which two hilarious young constables tried without much success to uphold the gravity of the law.

"Typical," said Liam in sepulchral tones. "Tell the police you're being bombed and poisoned and they're not interested. Send a bunch of batty women and unwashed dropouts on a march to a chicken farm, and they turn out in force! Not to protect the householder, mind you! But to protect these lu­natics!"

"Don't be so rude, Liam!" Sally told him sharply. "Any­way the police are going along to make sure the road isn't blocked and the law isn't broken at the chicken farm. That's right, isn't it, Yvonne?"

"Absolutely, my dear."

"But the road is blocked!" howled Liam. "And those idiot coppers over there in that car are sitting there doing sod all about it!"

"Never fear, Dr. Caswell!" said Yvonne encouragingly. "All will be well! We're moving off now."

"Thank God!" he said.

Yvonne returned to place herself at the head of her troops. They formed up raggedly behind her, more or less keeping to one side of the road. The banner which had been drooping was raised aloft. Yvonne, the light of true faith in her eyes, and bearing a strong resemblance to the central figure in De­lacroix's painting Liberty Leading the People, lifted a hand on high, turned and pointed across the fields.

"Wagons roll!" she cried.

"Wagons what?" demanded Liam. "Don't tell me that woman isn't stark raving bonkers!"

The procession set off, despite Yvonne's heroic gesture, along the road, not across country. As it flowed past, Tristan, gripping one end of the banner, cast the car and its occupants a look of such singular spite that Sally felt a spurt of alarm. They wound their ragged way around a bend in the road and were lost from sight. The police car trailed in the wake, the young constables still in the grip of ill-concealed mirth.


At the cottage, Sally saw her own car in the drive. Someone had brought it back from Bailey's. She'd quite forgotten about it.

Indoors, she sat down in relief. Her legs felt quite wobbly. She supposed that was the aftermath of the hemlock. Liam continued to offer lunch, hot drinks, cold drinks, anything he could think of, and to mooch about unhappily when she re­fused them all. It occurred to her that their roles had been reversed. Whereas before it had been she who'd run around mothering Liam while he groused and snapped, now he hov­ered around her while she grew increasingly terse.

For the first time she wondered whether "smother" had been what she'd done to Liam, rather than "mother." But even more than this, she realized that Liam, quite possibly, was frightened. She turned the idea over in her mind. She had, after all, almost died. Had the notion of life without her to run around and cosset him suddenly been presented to Liam in all its stark reality? Or could it be that he did love her, after all?

Much more kindly she said, "I'm grateful, Liam, honestly. But there's really nothing I need right now. I am rather tired. I didn't sleep very well in the hospital bed. I think I'll go upstairs and have a nap now. Honestly, you might just as well go back to Oxford—or go and start some work here in your study."

"I've left all my notes at the lab." He looked less worried, relieved even. "I'm glad you're going upstairs for a good rest. I'll come back early, try to be here around four, all right?"

She told him it would be fine. He still insisted on waiting until she'd gone upstairs, slipped off her outer clothes and got into bed. At long last, she heard him drive off.

Peace descended on the cottage at last. Sally sighed and relaxed on the pillows. She did feel exhausted. She drifted into sleep.


A little before two o'clock, Constable Barrett called in to Bamford station from the patrol car, parked in a lane just outside Castle Darcy.

"Sergeant? Barrett here." He paused and snorted. "Sorry, Sarge, bit of a frog in my throat. The demonstration's all over, broken up, gone home. No problems. That is to say—" He snorted again, quelling the laughter which rose in his throat. "Except that we've a theft to report."

The voice at the other end crackled.

"No, not from the chicken farm, sir. They never got on the premises. No, the theft has been reported by one of the demonstrators. A Mrs. Beryl Linnacott, she lives in the vil­lage. She was on the march, dressed as a—as a—" Barrett struggled, failed, burst out laughing and apologized. "Sorry, Sarge. But it did look bloody funny. She was dressed as a chicken. You know, sir, in a big foam suit? Well, it got a bit hot on the march, the weather being on the mild side today, and so when they got to the farm, she decided to take it off and—"

At this point, Barrett could manage no more. He thrust the mouthpiece at Constable Mclntyre beside him. "You go on, Mac. I can't!" He collapsed, sobbing with laughter.

Mclntyre drew on the self-discipline of his Calvinist fore­bears. "Hullo, Sergeant? Gary's got a coughing fit, must be a tickle in the throat." (Aside, "Shut up, Gaz, for God's sake!" Muffled wail from Barrett.) "Hullo, Sarge, you still there?" Mclntyre plowed on determinedly. "As Gary was saying, this Mrs. Linnacott took off the chicken outfit. What? Oh yes, she had clothes on underneath! She wasn't left in her undies. It was because she had all her ordinary clothes on underneath that she got so hot—"

Barrett let out a muffled shriek. Mclntyre put down the mouthpiece. "If you can't keep quiet, Gaz, at least get out of the car!"

The voice crackled and Mclntyre resumed his tale. "She took off the chicken outfit behind a hedge and left it there, meaning to collect it when the demonstration was over. They were messing about outside the farm for about an hour. When they started off home, she went to get the chicken suit and it was gone. Well, I mean, seems clear to me some kids have pinched it for a joke. But she's very upset because she made the thing herself and she's proud of it. She's insisting we get it back. What? Yes, Sergeant."

Mclntyre turned to Barrett who'd regained some sort of sobriety.

"OK, Gary, my son. We're to keep a look-out for a giant chicken. You didn't think you'd be doing that when you joined the police force, did you?"

Barrett collapsed again, weeping with mirth.


Sally awoke at quarter past two, finding that against all ex­pectations, she was now very hungry.

She got out of bed and dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater. The sun was still shining through the tiny bedroom window under the eaves, but with less power than earlier. Already the fine weather was waning, skies clouding over.

She went down to the kitchen to find she couldn't make any of her teas, because all the little pots of herbs had gone. She'd been advised to drink milk. There was milk in the fridge but she didn't fancy it. She opened a bottle of Evian water and drank some of that.

There was similarly little choice with regard to food. She might be hungry, but lacked the energy to prepare anything involving effort. Perhaps she ought to have let Liam stay. But no, it would be a waste of his day.

She slipped two pieces of bread into the toaster, and when they sprang up, spread them thinly with honey and took them into the living room and sat on the sofa to make the modest repast. She turned on the television and caught the three p.m. news update on Channel Two. The reports all seemed remote and of no interest. So what if the United Nations couldn't hold down the troublemakers in some problem corner of the world? The police couldn't find out who had caused her—and Liam—so much trouble in Castle Darcy!

The phone rang. She got up, glad of an excuse to turn off the television. She'd expected the caller to be Liam, but it was Meredith.

"How are you? I rang the hospital and was amazed to hear they'd let you go! Do you need anyone out there with you?" Meredith asked.

"They needed the bed and I didn't want to stay. I don't like hospitals. Thank you for the offer but Liam's coming home early, at four. And thank you again, Meredith, for everything you did the other day."

They exchanged small talk and she put the phone down. Almost at once, it rang again.

"Sally, Austin here."

"Oh, Austin!" She was glad of a chance to apologize for giving him such a fright.

"My dear girl, what are you saying? I'm just so very glad you were taken ill at the office and not in your car on some busy road! Are you sure you're all right now? Is Liam there with you?"

"No, but he's coming at four."

"You're all on your own?" Austin sounded horrified.

"But it's all right, Austin, really."

She put the phone down again, resumed her seat and fin­ished the toast. Now she'd broken her forty-eight hour fast, she found she was ravenous. She went out to the kitchen, made more toast and opened a can of sliced peaches. It was a funny old meal, but anything would do.

The telephone rang again and this time it was Liam. She told him she was fine, had had a good sleep and eaten lunch. He repeated he'd be back at four.

She'd expected that to be the lot, but it rang again a mere five minutes later.

"Sally dear? Yvonne. I've just got back from our dem­onstration. I've stood down the troops! It was very successful, I think. Well, a minor hitch but the police are sorting that out. How are you, dear? All alone? Would you like me to jump on my bike and come down and sit with you?"

Sally declined this kind offer. "You must be exhausted, Yvonne, after all your hard work this morning."

She put the phone down. It was nice to think so many people cared. But exhausting. She looked out of the window. A spot of fresh air was called for.

The phone shrilled. She picked it up. "Hullo?" A click at the other end was the only response as the receiver was re­placed. Wrong number, she supposed.

It was strange how much she missed the goats. Sally went to the hedge and looked over. The nannies' hut and Jasper's pen were a sad, deserted record of what once was.

She turned away and walked slowly down to the very bot­tom of their own long garden. In the spring, she thought, she really would tackle this neglected piece of the property. Last year, supervising the extension to the cottage and turning the barn into a garage had taken up all their time. But next year, in the spring, she'd dig over the ground down here. The fruit bushes were old and wouldn't fruit well, even if tidied up. She'd plant new ones.

Sally spent some minutes happily planning her new soft-fruit garden and then turned to walk back to the cottage.

Half way down the path, between her and the cottage, just by a gnarled old appletree, stood the chicken.

Sally was so startled she let out a short shriek, but then laughed. Yet another one who, returning from the demonstra­tion, had come to see if she was all right. She walked toward the yellow monster.

"Hullo!" she called to it. "Looking for me? Yvonne rang earlier and said the march went well!"

The chicken made no sound but began to pad down the path toward her. There was something unnerving about its silent approach. It was such a grotesque thing, all yellow like that. Yellow arms and gloves, yellow legs. Only its feet, clad in ubiquitous white trainer shoes, were not yellow.

Something clicked in Sally's brain. Her heart gave a painful lurch and, although she opened her mouth, her throat had closed up and she could make no sound.

The chicken in the procession had been entirely clad in yellow, yellow wrinkled tights thrust into yellow-painted shoes. Not white trainers, no. Yellow shoes. Sally could see them clearly in her mind's eye.

She managed to speak, asking huskily, "Who are you? What do you want?"

It made no sound. She couldn't tell who was in there. She could see the slit and just make out, she thought, a pair of eyes. Unfriendly eyes. And now she could see that in one yellow-gloved hand, it held a knife.

Sally froze. This couldn't be happening. This must be some lingering effect of the hemlock. She was hallucinating. Drugs, poisons, they did that to you. The thing was monstrous, hideous, yet comical, something got loose from a cartoon book. It was so close now that she could make out the grubby fibers of its nylon fleece, and smell a curious odor emanating from it, compounded of sweat and the sweet, fetid miasma which rose from the depths of clogged ditches. It raised a yellow arm and the knife glinted in the sun. That, at least, was real.

The temporary paralysis which had held Sally motionless was broken. She leapt aside, dodged the forward lunge of the yellow arm and the knife and tried to run past the chicken.

It wheeled and struck out at her again, the tip of the knife actually catching in her sweater. She jerked free and the chicken wobbled uncertainly, bowing and swaying. The foam and nylon outfit was cumbersome. She had momentary ad­vantage.

Sally plunged past it before it could recover, and. raced toward the cottage. If she only could lock herself in and call the police. There was nothing else she could do. Bodicote had been her only neighbor and he was gone.

The chicken was lumbering after her at surprising speed. The costume, though awkward, couldn't be heavy. The gro­tesque pursuit ended at the kitchen door where the creature caught up with her. Sally whirled to face it and grabbed the yellow arm which brandished the knife. The owner of the arm was strong and Sally hadn't thrown off the weakness brought on by the hemlock. She couldn't make the hand release the weapon just by trying to shake it. Instead, she risked pulling the hand and weapon toward her.

Still gripping the wrist of her assailant, Sally doubled under their locked arms as if completing some movement in a coun­try reel. The movement caused a downward thrust on the arm and to prevent losing its grip on the knife, the chicken had to bend—something which in its foam body was not really possible. It staggered wildly. Sally released the wrist and ran behind the creature.

The yellow globe rotated, bringing the wearer around to face her. The smaller ball of a head atop was nodding, loose on its stitching. It bore crudely sketched features, round eyes and smiling mouth. Its grin turned it into a halloween mask of unreasoning, malevolent glee.

But now Sally had the measure of it. Her one advantage was that the person inside the foam body had limited view. So long as she kept dodging behind it, the assailant's mental adjustment remained a fraction behind hers all the time, as the unknown being inside tried to relocate her and reposition itself accordingly. Whoever it was must be getting hot and tired in there. She finally managed to get right behind it as it stood uncertain which way to go. Sally gave it a mighty shove.

The chicken staggered again and, unable to right itself in the globular body, toppled over. The yellow-gloved hand dropped the knife.

Sally pounced on it and grabbed it.

She stood up. The chicken, after rolling in an undignified way on the ground seeking purchase, had managed to get to its feet. It stood a little distance away, watching. It made no move. The assailant could see the knife and knew the tables were turned.

Sally could, she supposed, try and force it to reveal its identity, but that would take time and anything might happen. There might be an accomplice somewhere, she couldn't be sure. All Sally did know for sure was that she had to get out of this village.

She backed away, watched by the silent creature in its yel­low suit. The car was out front, but not the keys. The keys were in her shoulder-bag, on the sofa. She fumbled behind her for the latch of the kitchen door, managed to open it, edged backwards through the opening, slammed the door shut and turned the clumsy Chubb key.

For the moment she was safe. Front and back doors locked. All windows shut. Sally ran into the living room and rifled her bag. Her sweating fingers closed on the keys. She looked up as something moved outside the window. It was still out there, casting about. It was looking for another weapon and seeking entry.

Sally realized she was still grasping the knife. Keeping tight hold of it, she went through to Liam's study where the phone was, and dialled 999. Through the window she saw the chicken. It came up close to the glass, trying to see in. It could see her at the phone. For a moment she and the monster faced one another with only the thin glass between them.

Then it moved away. It—she could only think of the as­sailant as it—surely realized the police would be on their way soon.

Her garbled words into the phone must have made little sense but a reassuring voice at the other end of the line as­sured her someone would be there soon.

She put the receiver down. Now, where was the chicken? The choice was hers. Stay here or get out with the car keys and escape altogether? Would it be safer to remain inside? Barred in? Waiting for the police? Perhaps her assailant had fled?

Sally peered out of the front windows. Nothing. She went to the kitchen, at the back of the cottage, and peered out of the window there. The garden seemed empty.

She heard a faint click, followed by a creak of wood. Her blood froze in her veins. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible!

She turned slowly. The door from the narrow hallway into the kitchen swung open slowly. The chicken stood there—or rather, a frightening mutant creature did.

The enemy had removed the cumbersome body. Now who­ever it was wore only the yellow knitted arms and gloves and the football-sized foam head pulled over the person's own head. Two holes had been ripped in the foam to allow the wearer to see in a grotesque sort of ski-mask. Otherwise the person wore jeans and a sweater, much as Sally did. As she'd feared, the unknown had spent the intervening minutes both in remedying the obstacle to its free movement and in search­ing for a new weapon. It had found one, a shiny new hammer from the garage.

The intruder leapt, swinging the hammer on high, gripped in both hands. It smashed into the kitchen door as Sally ducked. In return, she struck out blindly with the knife.