will.
“You could drink some of my House—” began Lady Sissy and then thought better of it at the sight of the Colonel’s beetling brows; also his face had begun to go red again.
“Some sherry, sir?” I suggested brightly.
“I shall drink nothing,” pronounced the Colonel in a sonorous tone, ignoring me. “If I can’t drink whisky, I shan’t drink anything. I shall sit here for a month at PPs and watch you, Sissy, drink yourself to death with that disgusting mixture of yours. At the end of the month, when my constitution will have become greatly weakened and I shall therefore have won the bet, you will pay me by giving up drinking that rubbish.”
“What?” Lady Sissy almost choked on her glass. “No more House Poison if you win? You’re being ridiculous.”
“That’s the bet,” said the Colonel implacably. He wrote it in the book. “Sign it, Sissy.”
“What does it matter since I’m going to win?” Lady Sissy sounded quite petulant as she spoke; nevertheless she signed the book in her turn.
“You’ll be grateful to me, Sissy. That rubbish is going to be the death of you one day—”
“Stuff and nonsense, Lionel,” cried Lady Sissy, good humour restored as she lifted the glass which I had refilled. “Stuff and nonsense.” It was her favourite expression where the Colonel was concerned. Whatever he suggested, Lady Sissy was inclined to come back at him with that phrase: “Stuff and nonsense, you’re talking nonsense as usual, Lionel,” she would exclaim, fluting away.
Unfortunately for once the Colonel wasn’t talking stuff and nonsense. Three weeks later, it
was
the House Poison which killed her. Or rather, to be precise, it was the poison—weed-killer, paraquat—which was contained in the House Poison which killed her. Ironically enough weed-killers generally were one of the topics the Colonel and Lady Sissy were always arguing about. Always on at each other about the state of the garden shed, too, and who had the key last, that sort of thing. As I told Tomlinson,who was scarcely surprised, they used to argue about anything. And everything.
Weed-killer: a horrible death. I’m glad I wasn’t present when it actually took place. The Colonel mixed that last cocktail for her himself, waiting till I was out of the room. That’s what the police think must have happened. Thank God I didn’t see it: it was bad enough seeing her body afterwards. Poor old girl.
But I was present when he died too, very shortly afterwards. Poor old boy. That was enough horror for me, I can tell you. He asked me for the key, looking absolutely crazy, a mad glint in his eye, his face quite red, he was breathing so heavily that I thought he was going to have a stroke. That was before I knew what he had done, of course. It seemed more natural afterwards, as I told Tomlinson, that he should be in such a state.
At the time he just asked me for the key of the whisky cupboard. “Time for my PP, Henry,” was what he said, not mentioning Lady Sissy at all. It wasn’t my place to question him, not my place to ask where she was, let alone my place to point out that the month wasn’t quite up … I just gave it to him and saw him lope off in the direction of the cellar, with that curious strong stride he had, right till the very last moment a healthy vigorous man. Till he drank the whisky that is. I can still hear his cry now, ringing in my ears. I came running. Bella came running (it takes a lot to move Bella out of her kitchen but the noise of the Colonel’s death throes got even Bella moving).
It was too late. You can try of course, and as I told Tomlinson we tried, all the well-known remedies, milk, bicarb., we tried everything. But it was much too late. She had absolutely laced that bottle with the stuff, knowing how he’d fall upon it once the month of the bet was over. The police told me afterwards—not Tomlinson, anotherman, more practical, not so full of social theories—that she’d given him a
“You could drink some of my House—” began Lady Sissy and then thought better of it at the sight of the Colonel’s beetling brows; also his face had begun to go red again.
“Some sherry, sir?” I suggested brightly.
“I shall drink nothing,” pronounced the Colonel in a sonorous tone, ignoring me. “If I can’t drink whisky, I shan’t drink anything. I shall sit here for a month at PPs and watch you, Sissy, drink yourself to death with that disgusting mixture of yours. At the end of the month, when my constitution will have become greatly weakened and I shall therefore have won the bet, you will pay me by giving up drinking that rubbish.”
“What?” Lady Sissy almost choked on her glass. “No more House Poison if you win? You’re being ridiculous.”
“That’s the bet,” said the Colonel implacably. He wrote it in the book. “Sign it, Sissy.”
“What does it matter since I’m going to win?” Lady Sissy sounded quite petulant as she spoke; nevertheless she signed the book in her turn.
“You’ll be grateful to me, Sissy. That rubbish is going to be the death of you one day—”
“Stuff and nonsense, Lionel,” cried Lady Sissy, good humour restored as she lifted the glass which I had refilled. “Stuff and nonsense.” It was her favourite expression where the Colonel was concerned. Whatever he suggested, Lady Sissy was inclined to come back at him with that phrase: “Stuff and nonsense, you’re talking nonsense as usual, Lionel,” she would exclaim, fluting away.
Unfortunately for once the Colonel wasn’t talking stuff and nonsense. Three weeks later, it
was
the House Poison which killed her. Or rather, to be precise, it was the poison—weed-killer, paraquat—which was contained in the House Poison which killed her. Ironically enough weed-killers generally were one of the topics the Colonel and Lady Sissy were always arguing about. Always on at each other about the state of the garden shed, too, and who had the key last, that sort of thing. As I told Tomlinson,who was scarcely surprised, they used to argue about anything. And everything.
Weed-killer: a horrible death. I’m glad I wasn’t present when it actually took place. The Colonel mixed that last cocktail for her himself, waiting till I was out of the room. That’s what the police think must have happened. Thank God I didn’t see it: it was bad enough seeing her body afterwards. Poor old girl.
But I was present when he died too, very shortly afterwards. Poor old boy. That was enough horror for me, I can tell you. He asked me for the key, looking absolutely crazy, a mad glint in his eye, his face quite red, he was breathing so heavily that I thought he was going to have a stroke. That was before I knew what he had done, of course. It seemed more natural afterwards, as I told Tomlinson, that he should be in such a state.
At the time he just asked me for the key of the whisky cupboard. “Time for my PP, Henry,” was what he said, not mentioning Lady Sissy at all. It wasn’t my place to question him, not my place to ask where she was, let alone my place to point out that the month wasn’t quite up … I just gave it to him and saw him lope off in the direction of the cellar, with that curious strong stride he had, right till the very last moment a healthy vigorous man. Till he drank the whisky that is. I can still hear his cry now, ringing in my ears. I came running. Bella came running (it takes a lot to move Bella out of her kitchen but the noise of the Colonel’s death throes got even Bella moving).
It was too late. You can try of course, and as I told Tomlinson we tried, all the well-known remedies, milk, bicarb., we tried everything. But it was much too late. She had absolutely laced that bottle with the stuff, knowing how he’d fall upon it once the month of the bet was over. The police told me afterwards—not Tomlinson, anotherman, more practical, not so full of social theories—that she’d given him a
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