poison business is hot air, in my opinion. Most of them are perfectly ordinary herbs, but by the time some witch-doctor’s muttered a lot of spells over them, the natives think they’re as deadly as hell.”
“You’re wrong about that, old boy,” Parrot insisted. “If you don’t believe me ask neighbour Jolyot Anstey. He’s a tremendous dab at them
he’s analysed them all and tried them out on frogs and God knows what. The other day we were playing golf at the club and I sliced into a patch of thick stuff at the sixth. There was a sort of bush with a mauve flower there and Anstey said: ‘See that bush over there? One leaf chopped up would kill five men.’ He said that the Wahuba used it a lot in the old days, and wasn’t it tragic how all the old native arts were dying out. I said, yes, we ought to have a stall for native poisoners at the next Arts and Crafts Society Show with demonstrations at eleven and three, and the old boy wasn’t at all pleased.”
“There you are,” West said to Vachell. “We’ve found your murderer for you. Look for a Wahuba of not less than sixty, who has a down on Munson and a relation who caddies at the club, and you’ve got your man.”
Vachell sipped his drink, leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on the crackling logs in the fire. He had to make an effort to keep them 98
away from Janice. She sat in silence, stroking a dog, her face still and yet alive and happy, half shadowed by the soft light. “I’d like to see this Jolyot Anstey,”
he remarked. “He sounds to be quite a guy.”
“He’s a priceless old bird,” Parrot said. “Used to be a surgeon, one of the Harley Street bigwigs with a knighthood and a good ‘Citadel’ racket, before he came out here. Now he lives on top of a mountain and broods. He’s got a perfectly good, or at least a perfectly cock-eyed, theory about practically everything on earth, from what diseases the inhabitants of Chania died of in ten thousand B.C. — he digs up bones all over his farm — to the causes of rust resistance in wheat in nineteen thirty-nine. Most people think he’s a crank, but I must say I rather like the old boy.”
“He has a perfectly lovely daughter,” Janice said.
Parrot glanced across at her over his glass and Vachell, watching him, was conscious of a look of admiration mixed with a sort of wistfulness in the other man’s rather comic, snub-nosed face. Parrot’s eyes were round as buttons, and a very bright blue.
“Her neck’s too long,” he said. “I don’t like long necks. They remind me of a tame swan I kept on the Bosphorus — one of the Abbotsbury swans. She came to a very sad end. I left her shut up in the bedroom of my lodgings one day — I always locked her up when I went away, for fear of Turkish grebes — and she was kidnapped by some cut-rate eiderdown manufacturers from Constantinople. I never heard of her again, and since then I can’t 99
stand people who remind me of swans. Besides, I wouldn’t like to put our Ted out of the running.”
Janice looked across at Vachell and smiled. “Just to bring you up to date on our local gossip, Sir Jolyot Anstey has a beautiful daughter ”
“So-so,” Parrot put in.
“Daphne, and young Ted Corcoran fell for her in a big way. But Sir Jolyot would break in pieces if he knew his daughter was thinking of marrying into the Munson family, and I guess Karl Munson would have fed Teddy to the hogs if he’d thought the boy’s mind was on anything but keeping smut out of the oats and couch out of the pyrethrum.
Old Anstey was just rat-poison to him.”
“It doesn’t sound the sort of love-affair likely to burn up the town,” Vachell remarked.
“I wouldn’t be too certain,” Parrot said. “You never know what may go on over the boundary fence. I’ve an idea….”
“Let’s talk about something else,” West broke in abruptly; and added in a mumble: “One gets sick of village gossip.” He looked ill and nervy,
“You’re wrong about that, old boy,” Parrot insisted. “If you don’t believe me ask neighbour Jolyot Anstey. He’s a tremendous dab at them
he’s analysed them all and tried them out on frogs and God knows what. The other day we were playing golf at the club and I sliced into a patch of thick stuff at the sixth. There was a sort of bush with a mauve flower there and Anstey said: ‘See that bush over there? One leaf chopped up would kill five men.’ He said that the Wahuba used it a lot in the old days, and wasn’t it tragic how all the old native arts were dying out. I said, yes, we ought to have a stall for native poisoners at the next Arts and Crafts Society Show with demonstrations at eleven and three, and the old boy wasn’t at all pleased.”
“There you are,” West said to Vachell. “We’ve found your murderer for you. Look for a Wahuba of not less than sixty, who has a down on Munson and a relation who caddies at the club, and you’ve got your man.”
Vachell sipped his drink, leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on the crackling logs in the fire. He had to make an effort to keep them 98
away from Janice. She sat in silence, stroking a dog, her face still and yet alive and happy, half shadowed by the soft light. “I’d like to see this Jolyot Anstey,”
he remarked. “He sounds to be quite a guy.”
“He’s a priceless old bird,” Parrot said. “Used to be a surgeon, one of the Harley Street bigwigs with a knighthood and a good ‘Citadel’ racket, before he came out here. Now he lives on top of a mountain and broods. He’s got a perfectly good, or at least a perfectly cock-eyed, theory about practically everything on earth, from what diseases the inhabitants of Chania died of in ten thousand B.C. — he digs up bones all over his farm — to the causes of rust resistance in wheat in nineteen thirty-nine. Most people think he’s a crank, but I must say I rather like the old boy.”
“He has a perfectly lovely daughter,” Janice said.
Parrot glanced across at her over his glass and Vachell, watching him, was conscious of a look of admiration mixed with a sort of wistfulness in the other man’s rather comic, snub-nosed face. Parrot’s eyes were round as buttons, and a very bright blue.
“Her neck’s too long,” he said. “I don’t like long necks. They remind me of a tame swan I kept on the Bosphorus — one of the Abbotsbury swans. She came to a very sad end. I left her shut up in the bedroom of my lodgings one day — I always locked her up when I went away, for fear of Turkish grebes — and she was kidnapped by some cut-rate eiderdown manufacturers from Constantinople. I never heard of her again, and since then I can’t 99
stand people who remind me of swans. Besides, I wouldn’t like to put our Ted out of the running.”
Janice looked across at Vachell and smiled. “Just to bring you up to date on our local gossip, Sir Jolyot Anstey has a beautiful daughter ”
“So-so,” Parrot put in.
“Daphne, and young Ted Corcoran fell for her in a big way. But Sir Jolyot would break in pieces if he knew his daughter was thinking of marrying into the Munson family, and I guess Karl Munson would have fed Teddy to the hogs if he’d thought the boy’s mind was on anything but keeping smut out of the oats and couch out of the pyrethrum.
Old Anstey was just rat-poison to him.”
“It doesn’t sound the sort of love-affair likely to burn up the town,” Vachell remarked.
“I wouldn’t be too certain,” Parrot said. “You never know what may go on over the boundary fence. I’ve an idea….”
“Let’s talk about something else,” West broke in abruptly; and added in a mumble: “One gets sick of village gossip.” He looked ill and nervy,
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