Free Poison Flowers by Natasha Cooper Page B

Worth. In reading Mrs Rusham’s laboriously neat writing, Willow discovered that Tom could not possibly introduce her to ‘the young man’, but would do what he could to find out ‘the information’ for her. The message ended: ‘Please tell Miss Woodruffe to be very careful and very discreet indeed.’
    Willow sat looking at that message for some time, before trying to telephone Tom to ask what he meant. For once he was in his office and she was quickly put through to his extension. But it did not help her much. All Tom would say when she pressed him for an explanation was:
    â€˜I can’t talk about this now. We’re very busy here. But I cannot stress enough that in such a situation you must take great care. It could be … People are not likely to appreciate questions and may take … evasive action. I must go. Goodbye.’
    As she listened to the empty buzz produced by her receiver and thought about the grey formality of his usually expressive voice, Willow realised that he must have been afraid that he was being overheard and so she tried to fill in the gaps in what he had actually managed to say. He was clearly afraid for her safety, which seemed absurd. Even if there really were a poisoner on the loose he or she could hardly have become aware that Willow had any interest in him or her. Only Tom and to some extent Richard Crescent had any idea of that. She could not believe that either of them posed any threat to her.
    The only other people who could know anything at all were Tom’s colleagues and superiors. Someone at his office might have noticed that he had had the relevant files out when they ought to have been consigned to some defunct-case storage. It was just possible, she supposed, that they might then have tapped his telephones and discovered that Willow was helping him uncover the poisoner. Could Tom really be afraid of something like that?
    On reflection. Willow decided that he could, and, knowing his bottomless store of commonsense and courage, she could not help feeling shaken.
    Deliberately deciding to ignore her weakness. Willow opened the toxicology text book she had brought from the library. Cross checking its references to plants with the English flora she had bought, she grew more and more appalled at how easy it was to obtain lethal poisons from the bogs, meadows, woods and gardens of Great Britain. She had always assumed that apart from the odd fungus and, of course, deadly nightshade, only tropical plants were poisonous. Her own absurdity made her laugh for a moment, but as she thought about the omnipresence of poisonous plants she began to question her own and Tom’s conviction that there must be some connection between the deaths. She also began to wonder how she could protect herself if the person she were trying to unmask really did discover her activities.
    After a while she went back to the book and discovered from the statistics quoted that surprisingly few murderers had used such methods. She felt slightly comforted.
    â€˜But it is eighty-odd years out of date,’ she reminded herself. ‘And perhaps detection of poison is more efficient now.’
    Before she could get any further, she heard the front door bell ring. There was no sound from the kitchen and so. Willow went out to answer it herself, realising that Mrs Rusham must have already gone to the dry cleaners.
    â€˜Package for Woodruffe,’ came the crackling voice through the intercom.
    â€˜I’ll come down,’ said Willow and, taking her keys, she walked downstairs to open the front door. When she got there she looked around for the expected man in motorcycle kit wanting a signature, but there was no one. A shabby, often re-used padded envelope had been propped against the top step. Willow picked it up and saw that it was addressed to her in ill-written pencilled capitals.
    She looked once more up and down the street for the messenger but eventualy shrugged and