The Doctor Digs a Grave (18 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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MONDAY EVENING
F
enimore hurried down Walnut Street to Nicholson's Books. It was gratifying, he thought, after reneging on two dinner invitations, that the Nicholsons still wanted to see him. They must value his company, he decided, because he shared their interest in history and old books. Jennifer, he hoped, valued him for something more. She did not discourage easily, he knew. Her willingness to put up with his idiosyncrasies over the past two years without any commitment from him had convinced him of this. When it came to important things, Jennifer could be very patient. She was in no hurry to marry; she enjoyed her work and had her father to look after. And she wasn't anxious to start a family early. Her mother had been forty-one when Jennifer was born, and she hadn't turned out too bad, she had told him wryly. Well, at least her father liked her, she assured him.
Father and daughter shared an apartment over their bookstore. It was one of the last independent bookstores in Philadelphia. The front of the store was devoted to contemporary stock, best-sellers, and so on, but the rabbit warren of smaller rooms in the back housed a collection of rare books that was sought out by
scholars, young and old. Professors and students came there in search of books that were either unavailable in the libraries or too expensive for their pocketbooks. Sometimes these scholars turned Nicholson's Books into a research library. But the bookseller and his daughter overlooked how often they came and how long they stayed, without making a purchase. Mr. Nicholson was a scholar in his own right but without the benefit of degrees. His knowledge of classical and medieval history was legend, and it had been acquired not at a university but by devouring and remembering the contents of the books that passed through his store. And, unlike certain university scholars, he was happy to share his knowledge with anyone who happened to wander in.
Fenimore followed Jennifer up the narrow stairs, inhaling the delicious cooking aromas filtering down from above. The spaciousness of the apartment always took him by surprise. Built in the twenties, it had high ceilings and wide windows, carved cornices and fine moldings. His favorite room was the library, where they always gathered before and after dinner. This was where Jennifer deposited him now, among the glass-fronted bookcases and stained-glass reading lamps, in the squashy easy chair that was always reserved for him. When Mr. Nicholson handed him a martini made exactly to his specifications, the stresses and strains of a doctor/detective's life melted away, and he basked in this little bit of heaven.
After their initial greeting, the doctor and bookman shared a few minutes of contented silence, sipping their drinks, while Jennifer finished whatever she was doing in the kitchen. When she rejoined them, with a glass of Chablis, Fenimore thought she looked especially well. Her fair skin and dark hair made a striking contrast, and her face was flushed, as if with excitement (at seeing him, or from the heat of the stove she had probably been slaving over all day?).
“We're having a cold dinner tonight,” she said. “We were very busy in the store today and I didn't have time to cook.”
“Where are all those enticing smells coming from, then?” asked Fenimore.
“From the apartment above. We rented it to a bachelor who's a gourmet cook.” Fenimore didn't know which he resented more, the fact of the bachelor living in such close proximity to Jennifer, or the fact that he wasn't going to have the chance to sample his cooking. He must have looked crestfallen, because Jennifer said quickly, “Never mind. We're having shrimp salad and corn muffins. I defrosted a batch. And for dessert, apple cobbler with whipped cream.”
Fenimore relaxed. All three dishes were favorites of his. He'd worry about the bachelor later.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Mr. Nicholson said, “I've made a few acquisitions since you were here last, Doctor.”
Fenimore turned reluctantly. Usually fascinated by the older gentleman's rare book finds, tonight he would have preferred simply to sit and enjoy Jennifer. He hadn't seen her for a while, and the last time had been under rather constrained circumstances. But the bookman was handing him a heavy, dusty tome, and there was nothing to do but put down his martini and lift it into his lap.
As he opened to the title page, the odor of must and mildew obliterated all the tantalizing aromas from above.
 
MATERIA MEDICO
An Herbaria
By
Dioscorides
The Properties Of Six Hundred Medicinal Plants
 
The words wandered down the page in the fashion of medieval manuscripts.
“Dioscorides was a Greek who traveled with the Roman army in the first century A.D.,” Mr. Nicholson explained, “and the first person to establish botany as an applied science.”
“Dad, maybe Andrew just wants to relax tonight,” Jennifer said. She had noticed that he had looked tired when he came in.
“No, that's quite all right.” In spite of himself, Fenimore was becoming interested. Cautiously, he turned the page. The paper was so old and brittle that one false move would crumble it. He thought of Polly Hardwick's Roman garden. Here were enough specimens to furnish her entire exhibit. He paused to admire an intricate drawing of a familiar plant. Each bell-like blossom, down to the individual grains of pollen on every stamen, had been carefully rendered by hand. The only thing missing was the color, that delicate purple shade from which it drew its botanical name—
Digitalis purpurea.
And on the facing page was an illustration of another variety—
Digitalis lanata,
a shorter plant with a smaller, white blossom. It was rarely found in America. Below this drawing was an equally delicate rendering of belladonna, more commonly known as deadly nightshade.
Mr. Nicholson, curious to see what was absorbing his guest's attention, came to look over his shoulder. “‘Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, / Emblems of punishment and pride,'” the bookseller quoted.
Fenimore looked up.
“Scott. ‘Lady of the Lake.'”
Fenimore was reminded of the poisonous potential of foxglove. Like most things in this world, it could be used for good or evil. “A two-edged sword,” the
Textbook of Cardiology
had described it. Dioscorides must have known this. Otherwise he wouldn't have grouped it in his text with other poisonous plants.
“You look awfully serious,” Jennifer said. “There's only one cure for that. Let's eat. Dinner's ready.” She drained her Chablis and led them into the dining room.
During dinner, Mr. Nicholson entertained them with poisonous plant lore.
“Hellebore was a good one to have on hand. The Greeks used it to pollute their enemies' water supply. Their foes grew so weak from purging, it was a cinch to conquer them. Can't you see all those Trojans rushing for the men's room.”
“Nice dinner table talk, Dad.”
He laughed. “And think of all those kings who were done in by one herb or another.”
“And philosophers,” put in Fenimore.
“‘Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i' th' darke,'” recited Jennifer.
“Of course, there was a positive side to that,” the bookseller said.
Fenimore and Jennifer looked puzzled.
“It decreased unemployment. Enter the poison taster! No king or queen dared be without one. The medieval classifieds must have been bursting with ads placed by them. Of course, the positions were usually temporary, and their resumes weren't expected to be very long. Good taste buds and a suicidal tendency were the only requirements.” He paused to cautiously chew a bit of corn muffin, as if testing for deadly ingredients.
“I read somewhere that Richelieu was too cheap to hire a taster,” Jennifer said, “but he kept lots of cats around and never ate anything without trying it out on one of them first.”
Fenimore wondered what Sal would have to say about that.
“Arsenic was the favorite poison in those days,” Mr. Nicholson said. “It was easy to get hold of in the form of rat poison, and every pantry had a good supply. Sometimes the lady of the house put it to other uses. The infamous Madame LaFarge bumped off several husbands that way. And one grande dame, the marquise de Brinvilliers, did away with her father and two brothers because they stood in the way of the family fortune.”
“Not all poisoners were women, Dad,” Jennifer admonished him. “Maybe Andrew should have brought Sal along to sample his dinner,” she added.
“I'm afraid that wouldn't have worked out.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn't care for corn muffins.”
Jennifer plucked one from the basket and threw it at him, knocking over his wineglass in the process. Fortunately it was empty.
Mr. Nicholson righted the glass, filled it, and continued. “Did you know that the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are almost the same as the symptoms of cholera, Doctor?”
Fenimore shook his head. He was comparing this dinner to the dinner he had recently had with the Hardwicks. Did those people ever have any fun?
“Cholera was very prevalent in those days, and deaths by poison often went undetected because the cause was attributed to that disease. Frequently the poisoner got off scot-free.”
“The heyday for poisoners.” Fenimore laughed.
“What fascinates me,” said Jennifer, “are the ingenious ways poisons were administered. Have you ever heard of ‘poison rings'?”
They looked dumb.
“These rings looked ordinary enough, but they had a cavity behind the stone with a barb attached. You filled the cavity with arsenic, or some other deadly poison, and the next time you ran into your enemy, you gave him or her a friendly handshake, and—presto—you administered the fatal scratch.”
“Never heard of that one,” Mr. Nicholson said, “but I've heard of kings who poisoned the points of their scepters. If the king took a sudden dislike to a servant or subject, he just gave him or her a little tap on the head.”
“I prefer more straightforward methods,” Fenimore said. “The poisoned cup or sword, like in
Hamlet.
”
“There was nothing straightforward about the way Hamlet's father died,” Jennifer said, and recited,
“With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
the leperous distilment …”
Fenimore clapped, suitably impressed.
She flushed.
“How about the Lenapes.” Fenimore had just finished the book Jennifer had brought him. “They used to crush the green balls of walnut trees and throw them into the river to make the fish sleepy and easier to catch.”
“That doesn't sound quite cricket,” Jennifer said.
“No worse than our custom of tranquilizing cattle before corralling them and slaughtering them,” Fenimore said.
“They also poisoned the tips of their spears and arrows, didn't they?” said Mr. Nicholson.
“Actually, that's a misconception,” Fenimore said. “Many Indians who we thought died of poisoned arrows died of tetanus. That green, gummy substance on the arrows that we thought was poison was nothing more than an animal glue made from hide or hooves to hold the arrowhead in place.”
Mr. Nicholson looked dismayed. “If they keep revising history at this rate, my books will soon be worthless.”
“Don't worry, there will always be readers who'll want to laugh at the quaint beliefs of their predecessors. Your books will become priceless collectors' items,” Fenimore assured him.
Jennifer appeared, bearing the apple cobbler and whipped cream. For the first time that evening, silence fell on the table.
It was their custom, after dinner, to go back to the library for coffee and watch an old movie on the VCR.
“What'll it be tonight?” Fenimore asked, reclaiming his favorite chair.
“Arsenic and Old Lace?”
Jennifer showed him the cassette she had in mind,
Notorious.
“Good choice,” he said.
Before she put the cassette in the machine, Jennifer placed
two books in his lap.
The Big Sleep
and
The Long Goodbye
by Raymond Chandler. “You can't read them now,” she said as he opened the first volume. “Take them home. They're yours.”
“To keep?”
She nodded. “Although I can't imagine why you'd want to read such violent books after your recent experience. I'd think a nice cozy mystery would be more relaxing.”
Fenimore closed the book in his lap and, with a smile of deep satisfaction, settled back to watch Ingrid Bergman being slowly poisoned to death, secure in the knowledge that Cary Grant would arrive at the eleventh hour to save her.
 
On the way home, Fenimore's step was light. All traces of his former exhaustion had vanished. After recovering from Jennifer's good-night kiss, he reviewed their dinner table conversation. Something Jennifer had said stuck in his mind. “What fascinates me are the ingenious ways poisons were administered.” It was no mystery now that Sweet Grass had died of digitalis toxicity. But how had it been administered? He had discarded his original idea, that someone had dumped ground-up digoxin tablets in her food or drink, because everyone at the picnic had eaten and drunk from the same source. He stopped for the light. Maybe he was under some misconception, like those historians who had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the Indians and their poisoned arrows. He crossed the street. But how was it done? There were no swords or scepters at the Hardwicks' picnic … .

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