at Patrick. “If it was bad clams then he’s a gonner.”
“Surely he wouldn’t have eaten them if they were bad,” Patrick reasoned.
“No!” said Mark angrily. “Shellfish poisoning. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”
“It would seem not.”
“I have,” Terry said. “There’s a minute poisonous plant that the shellfish ingest which makes them toxic. You can’t taste it and cooking doesn’t eliminate the poison. Three people died last week.”
*
Paul was still alive at six the following morning. That was the hour when Terry relieved Patrick at his bedside. Terry took with him the information that an Inspector Le Blek had called with two of his men, one of them a forensic scientist, soon after Paul had been taken to the hospital. Le Blek had questioned everyone briefly while the man from the forensic department had collected specimens.
“Le Blek has to investigate, even if it’s only a straightforward case of Paul eating the wrong clams,” Patrick said, very tired and obviously haunted by what he had seen. “If you’re interested in the scientific stuff it’s a plant called Gonyaulax-Tamarensis. The boffins refer to it as a dinoflagellate, and it produces a poison fifty times stronger than curare.”
He smiled wearily. “I wrote it down. I can always remember things when I write them down. Clams and mussels eat this plant and it makes them pretty deadly, but periwinkles aren’t affected as they graze on larger seaweed. Scallops consume it too but we throw away the poisonous part and only eat the muscle.”
“Does Paul have a chance?” I asked, getting to the point.
“Depends. As Terry said, cooking doesn’t affect the toxin. There’s no antidote.”
“No antidote!”
“That’s what the doctor was careful to impress on me. Another point not in Paul’s favour is that local people can build up a resistance to it. They might be unaffected by a meal that would make a visitor very ill.”
“I don’t understand why Le Blek has to investigate if it’s an accident.”
“Because these plants stain the sea red and clam collecting is automatically made illegal in any area where this is observed. A special watch is mounted in the summer months when the danger’s at its height. And three people died last week, don’t forget — it might just be accidental.”
I broke the silence that followed by saying, “Paul is the real brains of this outfit.”
“He’s also the only one in the team who likes clams so if anyone’s going to be poisoned accidentally it would be Paul. We mustn’t become carried away by thoughts of murder.”
*
I felt quite useless. With no meals to plan and cook, no garden to tend, and quite unable to write a word, I read until my eyes ached — mostly light fiction of Emma’s of the kind that had driven me to writing in the first place, and the better English Sunday papers, available at certain outlets at three times the price at home. The latter probably saved my sanity.
After four hours sleep Patrick went to find Mark, who was spending the week at home as the college was closed for a half-term break. They both disappeared to the basement and neither emerged for nearly twenty-four hours. David and Emma’s disapproval of what they knew to be going on down there settled over the household like a chilly miasma. It was typical of Patrick, however, to give everyone something to think about.
Before he departed he asked me if I was feeling better and I think I answered him truthfully because, when a man is dying, one accords one’s own minor health worries the same sympathy due to a spoilt whining child. But in quiet moments I had to admit to myself that in a vague, unhappy way I felt decidedly ill.
I was glad that Emma kept away from the basement. Not many mothers, even when the fire of maternalism does not burn unquenchable in their bosoms, will willingly witness their son being taken apart and put back together again, no matter how artistic or necessary
“Surely he wouldn’t have eaten them if they were bad,” Patrick reasoned.
“No!” said Mark angrily. “Shellfish poisoning. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”
“It would seem not.”
“I have,” Terry said. “There’s a minute poisonous plant that the shellfish ingest which makes them toxic. You can’t taste it and cooking doesn’t eliminate the poison. Three people died last week.”
*
Paul was still alive at six the following morning. That was the hour when Terry relieved Patrick at his bedside. Terry took with him the information that an Inspector Le Blek had called with two of his men, one of them a forensic scientist, soon after Paul had been taken to the hospital. Le Blek had questioned everyone briefly while the man from the forensic department had collected specimens.
“Le Blek has to investigate, even if it’s only a straightforward case of Paul eating the wrong clams,” Patrick said, very tired and obviously haunted by what he had seen. “If you’re interested in the scientific stuff it’s a plant called Gonyaulax-Tamarensis. The boffins refer to it as a dinoflagellate, and it produces a poison fifty times stronger than curare.”
He smiled wearily. “I wrote it down. I can always remember things when I write them down. Clams and mussels eat this plant and it makes them pretty deadly, but periwinkles aren’t affected as they graze on larger seaweed. Scallops consume it too but we throw away the poisonous part and only eat the muscle.”
“Does Paul have a chance?” I asked, getting to the point.
“Depends. As Terry said, cooking doesn’t affect the toxin. There’s no antidote.”
“No antidote!”
“That’s what the doctor was careful to impress on me. Another point not in Paul’s favour is that local people can build up a resistance to it. They might be unaffected by a meal that would make a visitor very ill.”
“I don’t understand why Le Blek has to investigate if it’s an accident.”
“Because these plants stain the sea red and clam collecting is automatically made illegal in any area where this is observed. A special watch is mounted in the summer months when the danger’s at its height. And three people died last week, don’t forget — it might just be accidental.”
I broke the silence that followed by saying, “Paul is the real brains of this outfit.”
“He’s also the only one in the team who likes clams so if anyone’s going to be poisoned accidentally it would be Paul. We mustn’t become carried away by thoughts of murder.”
*
I felt quite useless. With no meals to plan and cook, no garden to tend, and quite unable to write a word, I read until my eyes ached — mostly light fiction of Emma’s of the kind that had driven me to writing in the first place, and the better English Sunday papers, available at certain outlets at three times the price at home. The latter probably saved my sanity.
After four hours sleep Patrick went to find Mark, who was spending the week at home as the college was closed for a half-term break. They both disappeared to the basement and neither emerged for nearly twenty-four hours. David and Emma’s disapproval of what they knew to be going on down there settled over the household like a chilly miasma. It was typical of Patrick, however, to give everyone something to think about.
Before he departed he asked me if I was feeling better and I think I answered him truthfully because, when a man is dying, one accords one’s own minor health worries the same sympathy due to a spoilt whining child. But in quiet moments I had to admit to myself that in a vague, unhappy way I felt decidedly ill.
I was glad that Emma kept away from the basement. Not many mothers, even when the fire of maternalism does not burn unquenchable in their bosoms, will willingly witness their son being taken apart and put back together again, no matter how artistic or necessary
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