Before the Poison Read Free Page A

‘You must excuse me. I’m afraid I fell asleep and lost track of the time.’
    A little smile blossomed on her face. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Heather Barlow.’
    We shook hands, then I stood aside and asked her to come in. She was carrying a shopping bag, which she set down on the sideboard. I hung her coat in the small cloakroom beside the door, and we stood awkwardly in the large vestibule, the grandfather clock’s heavy ticking echoing in the cavernous space.
    ‘So what do you think now you’re here?’ Mrs Barlow asked.
    ‘I’m impressed. It’s everything you told me it would be. I’d invite you into the den or the living room for a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid I haven’t explored downstairs yet. And I don’t have any tea. I do have some duty-free whisky, mind you.’
    ‘That’s all right. I know my way around. I ought to do. I’ve been here often enough over the past few weeks. Why don’t we go into the kitchen?’ She picked up the shopping bag and raised it in the air. ‘I took the liberty of nipping into Tesco’s and picking up some basics, just in case you forgot, or didn’t get the chance. Bread, butter, tea, coffee, biscuits, eggs, bacon, milk, cheese, cereal, toothpaste, soap, paracetamol. I took a rather scattershot approach. I’m afraid I have no idea what you eat, whether you’re a vegetarian, vegan, whatever.’
    ‘You’re a lifesaver, Mrs Barlow,’ I told her. ‘Food completely slipped my mind. And I’ll eat anything. Sushi. Warthog carpaccio. As long as it’s not still moving around too much.’
    She laughed. ‘Call me Heather. Mrs Barlow makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy. And I don’t think you’ll find much sushi or warthog in Richmond.’ She led me through the door to the left and switched on the lights. The kitchen, along with its pantries and larders, ran along the western side of the house and it was the most modern room I had seen so far. It certainly appeared well appointed, with brushed-steel oven, dishwasher, fridge and freezer units built in, a granite-topped island, nice pine-fronted cupboards, and a matching breakfast nook by one of the windows. All I could see was darkness outside, though I knew I must be facing towards the end of dale, where it dwindled into a tangle of woods beyond the drystone wall. The cooker was gas, I noticed, which I much preferred to electric because it gave me more control. There was also a beautiful old black-leaded fireplace – though I doubt, these days, that it was real lead – with hooks and nooks and crannies for kettles, soup pots, roasting dishes and witches’ cauldrons, for all I knew.
    Heather started to unload her shopping bag on the island, putting those items that needed to be kept cool into the fridge. ‘Oh, and I know it’s very impertinent of me, but I also brought you this,’ she said, pulling out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. ‘I don’t even know if you drink.’
    ‘In moderation,’ I said. ‘And I love champagne. I rarely drink a full bottle on my own, though. Shall I open it now?’
    ‘No, please, I can’t. I have to drive. Besides, it needs chilling. It would be criminal to drink warm champagne. But thanks, all the same.’ She put the Veuve in the fridge and glanced around at me. ‘I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you’d be alone, or perhaps with someone. You never mentioned anything personal in our conversations or emails, such as children, a wife or . . . you know, a partner. Only, it’s such a large house.’
    ‘I’m not gay,’ I told her, ‘and I’m quite alone. My wife died almost a year ago. I also have two grown-up children.’
    ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I mean, about your wife.’
    ‘Yes. She would have loved it here.’ I clapped my hands. ‘Tea, then?’
    ‘Excellent. You sit down over there and let me take care of it.’
    I sat and watched while Heather filled the electric kettle and flicked the switch. She was a joy