David Roberts - Sweet poison

D AVID R OBERTS worked in publishing for over thirty years, most recently as a publishing director, before devoting his energies to writing full time. He is married and divides his time between London and Wiltshire.

Praise for David Roberts

Sweet Poison
A classic murder mystery with as complex a plot as one could hope for and a most engaging pair of amateur sleuths whom I look forward to encountering again in future novels.

Charles Osbourne, author of

The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie

Bones of the Buried
Roberts use of period detail gives the tale terrific texture. Recommend this one heartily.

Booklist

Hollow Crown
The plots are exciting and the central characters are engaging, they offer a fresh, a more accurate and a more telling picture of those less than placid times.

Sherlock

Dangerous Sea
Dangerous Sea is taken from more elegant times than ours, when women retained their mystery and even murder held a certain charm. The plot is both intricate and enthralling, like Poirot on the high seas, and lovingly recorded by an author with a meticulous eye and a huge sense of fun.

Michael Dobbs, author of

Winstons War and Never Surrender

Also by David Roberts

Bones of the Buried

Hollow Crown

Dangerous Sea

The More Deceived

A Grave Man

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2001

This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2002

Copyright David Roberts 2001, 2002

The right of David Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN 1-84119-402-6
ISBN 978-1-84119-402-8
eISBN 978-1-78033-424-0

Printed and bound in the EU

10 9 8 7

For Jane

Sweet, sweet poison for the ages tooth...

Shakespeare, King John

If you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Prologue

The Duke thrust aside his copy of The Times in disgust and stared up through the branches of the great copper beech under which he sat. A light wind agitated the leaves and tossed the discarded newspaper into the air so that several sheets lodged among the lower branches. The ancient and noble tree, which the Germans call a blood beech, creaked and groaned. The brittle leaves rustled and whispered. Shafts of white light, like burning arrows, pierced the shadow into which he had taken his deck chair and made him shield his eyes with his hand. August in England is often an unsettled month but this year, 1935, it had been unusually hot. The grass was browned and the river ran slow and sullen, stifled by weed.

The Duke had not been sleeping well, perhaps because of the heat but there were other reasons, and now his eyes closed, unable to withstand the bright sunlight. He drew out of his trouser pocket his red-spotted silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had been upset by what he had read in the newspaper and he had shut his eyes in the hope of forgetting but, as was now commonplace, his mind filled with nightmare images of his brothers death all of twenty years ago. They were the more vivid because he had not himself witnessed it. He saw Franklyn, splendid in his uniform, leading his men towards a wood or maybe just a copse, he could not be sure. Then he saw ill-defined figures in grey kneeling around a metal tripod. They seemed to be feeding a long thin muzzle from below as one might milk a cow. His brother was running, waving his revolver in his right hand to urge on the men behind him. He was bare-headed. In these early days of war, steel helmets were not often worn and his cap had been snatched off his head by the wind or by a bullet as he began his charge. He never reached the trees. A few yards short of the wood he fell clumsily as though he had tripped over a furrow or stumbled on a mole hill. On the ground, he made absurd swimming movements before lying still. All about him other men were dropping down with the same gracelessness. At this moment, as was always the way of it, the Duke woke up choking with anxiety, the blood pounding in his head.

He struggled out of his canvas chair cursing and calling for his wife. Connie! Connie! Where are you?

Im here, dear. Whats the matter? came her calm, cool voice from across the lawn and the Duke, still stupid with panic and fatigue, half ran towards the woman who alone made his life bearable.

What is it, my dear? she said as he came up to her. You have upset yourself? Have you been having that dream again?

The Duke hung his head shamefacedly. I was sitting there reading the paper and thinking about the dinner tonight and I must have dozed off.

And you started thinking of Frank?

Yes, for the first time for a week. I thought I was really free of it but I suppose... well, the news from Germany unsettled me. He gripped his wifes arm so hard it hurt but she made no sign. Thats why it is so important to get these people talking. Frank cannot, must not, have died in vain. We must...

I know, Gerald, said the Duchess gently, stroking his cheek, I know. It will all go well tonight; dont worry. Now, why dont you go up to the house and go through the arrangements with Bates and make sure hes clear about the wine.

Yes, mdear, said the Duke meekly. Sorry, old thing. Im afraid I got myself into a bit of a state.

The Duke, much calmer now, walked slowly back towards the open French windows through which his wife had come to his rescue. She stood where he had left her, looking at his retreating form with something approaching dismay. She was afraid he was setting too much store by these dinners he had determined to host with the aim of fostering Anglo-German understanding. He had never got over his brothers death in those first few days of the war and the guilt he felt at not himself having fought. He had so wanted to prove himself on the field of battle but his father had forbidden it. He had told his son that his disobedience would kill him. He had tortured himself ever after wondering if he had been a coward not to have defied his father and gone to France. It was this heavy burden, she knew, which made him dread another war with Germany and he considered it his duty to do everything he could to prevent it.

At least the castle was looking at its most delectable for the distinguished guests. It had been built in Elizabethan times by a Swedish princess, one of the Virgin Queens ladies-in-waiting. The long gravel drive broadened into a graceful sweep outside the great front door made of ancient oak and studded with iron nails. Through the door the visitor entered a hall created in the eighteenth century to replace the somewhat poky original entrance. This new hall, designed by Robert Adam in 1768, was of some considerable size, floored in black and white marble squares and encircled by a magnificent staircase. In the middle of the hall on a table stood a glorious arrangement of summer flowers which scented the whole house. High above, Adam had created a glass dome which matched the airy lightness of the castle to perfection. On the right of the hall there was the dining-room. A Holbein of an unknown man, possibly a relation of the princess who had built the house, hung above an Adam fireplace. Less happily, in the nineteenth century, French windows had been let into a bay for the convenience of those who might wish to step out on to the lawns without the bother of going through the hall. The drawing-room on the other side of the hall had been similarly defaced but there was no doubt that on a summers day such as this one it was delightful to feel, with the French windows thrown open, a gentle breeze dissipate the stale air of afternoon heat. This was Connies domain. She did not for one moment consider herself to be the castles owner; she was merely if it could ever be considered merely its chatelaine. Standing on the lawn, she raised her eyes to the castle battlements. They shimmered insubstantial in the early afternoon sun. The castle for all its parapets and embrasures was a confection with the defensive capability of a wedding cake. It pretended to be what it was not. The ancient honey-coloured stone, somnolent in the sun, dreamed not of war but of masques and plays, courtiers and their ladies. It stood, like England itself, unprepared for conflict of any sort in sleepy forgetfulness of its own history.