Free Poison Flowers by Natasha Cooper Page A

murdered, or even have stupidly taken a fatal dose of aconite for some peculiar purpose of his own.
    The thought of aconite sent Willow upstairs to the ‘Science and Miscellaneous’shelves for a book on poisons. The only one she could find had been published in 1906, but she thought it unlikely to be badly out of date.
    â€˜Poisons can’t have changed much in eighty years,’ she murmured, much to the surprise of a young man leaning against the stacks further into the gloomy room.
    Willow took the fat book down to the front desk and signed for it. Checking the catalogue, she discovered that the library did own a more modem book on poisons and so she put in a request to borrow it when it was next returned.
    When she emerged into the sunlit green-and-whiteness of the square, she decided to walk back to Chesham Place. There was half an hour to spare before lunch and the exercise might stimulate her brain.
    She planned to go via Jermyn Street and found herself seduced into a little self-indulgent window shopping, which soon turned into the real thing when she let herself buy a luxurious yellow silk shirt in one shop and a pair of soft black-leather shoes in another. Once again her long-entrenched frugality protested at the extravagance. She partly salved her agitated conscience by dropping into Hatchards in Piccadilly for a book about English wild flowers, which she thought might help her avoid making another mistake like the one she had made over the aconite. She also asked in the non-fiction paperback department whether there were any books about serial killers. To her surprise the assistant went immediately to an American study of the phenomenon and offered it to her. Willow read the blurb and, deciding that it might be useful, paid for it and took it away.
    When she reached the flat, ten minutes after one o’clock, Mrs Rusham greeted her with patent disapproval and a clutch of telephone messages. Ignoring the first, Willow thanked her for the messages and, having washed, walked into the dining room for lunch. When she saw what had been laid out for her, she thought that Mrs Rusham’s disapproval of her lateness was a bit absurd, for all the food was cold. There was a perfectly arranged salad of radiccio, goat’s cheese and olive oil to start with and a miniature game pie to follow.
    Mrs Rusham was a past-master of the art of making raised pies, and since Willow was not particuarly keen on pork pies, her housekeeper always had plenty of game in the freezer instead. As usual the pastry was crisp on top and delectably chewy beneath the surface and the partridge, pheasant and hare filling was a small miracle of flavour, presumably moistened with something beyond the jellied stock that glistened in all the interstices. Willow washed it down with a glass of Vichy water and completed her lunch with a ripe pear.
    When she had finished that, she carried her plates out to the kitchen to thank Mrs Rusham.
    â€˜I’m glad it was satisfactory, Miss Woodruffe,’ she said. ‘As you will have seen from your messages, Mr Lawrence-Crescent telephoned this morning, and he also asked me to tell you that his guests have all accepted for Thursday next week.’
    â€˜Excellent,’ said Willow, genuinely pleased. ‘And have you and he decided on a menu?’
    â€˜He said that he would leave everything to me,’ said Mrs Rusham, beaming with remembered gratification. ‘Is there anything you would like this afternoon, Miss Woodruffe?’
    â€˜This afternoon? No, I don’t think so. Do you want some time off?’ asked Willow.
    â€˜Oh no. But I thought I would deal with the laundry and take your dry cleaning out if you didn’t want me for anything else.’
    Willow shook her head and took her small sheaf of telephone messages to her small writing room. The only unexpected call was from Eve Greville, her literary agent, asking her to ring back. One of the others was from Tom