The Inheritance Powder

The Inheritance Powder. A Short Story by Rusty Woodward-Gladdish


'Arsenic has been a popular way of poisoning people since the Middle Ages. The symptoms of arsenic poisoning could be confused with those of many illnesses, and it was also very difficult to detect arsenic after death so it provided a practical way of murdering someone. Indeed, white arsenic became known as 'Inheritance Powder'. (Marjie Bloy. Ph.D., Research Fellow of the National University of Singapore) Wikipedia





Part One: Winter

George and Julia

It was raining again. It ran, coursing like tears down the window pane. George lay awkwardly in his bed facing the window. He lay on his side staring unseeing out at the rain, his long legs drawn up into his stomach. His silver hair was dark with sweat. He moved his head irritably from side to side on the damp pillow. Then, his face contorted into a grimace and his eyes became mere slits as a searing pain shot through his entire body. His back arched as he wrestled with the all consuming agony of it. Then, just as he felt he could not bear another second, it stopped as suddenly as it started. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath as the throbbing, red wave of pain ebbed from his spare frame.

He lay on his back for a moment staring at the ceiling, his muscles released from their vice-like grip, relaxed. He waited for a moment then he sat up. An icy wind sprang up outside and crept in the open window by stealth, tugging at the chintz curtains. George shivered. He was nursing a full bladder and felt the need to urinate. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up unsteadily. He went to the window and looked out at the garden below. The late afternoon light was fading as winter drew its dark mantle over the neat suburban garden. It was raining steadily and the black denuded trees trembled in the sqally winds. Two dissident crows sat hunched in the branches with their backs to him. He frowned at the sight of these interlopers. It was unusual to see crows. The garden was normally the undisputed domain of three chattering magpies. He closed the window and shuffled to the bathroom.

After he had relieved himself he washed his hands allowing the water to run over his fingers. He leaned his head weakly against the glass of the bathroom mirror. It felt cool against his hot, moist skin. He studied the face reflected there. His hair was almost completely silvery white. Nothing left to suggest the full mane of blue-black hair of his youth. The green eyes that gazed back at him seemed dimmed somehow. Pain had dragged down the outer corners, giving him a permanently sad expression. He noted the deep lines running from nose to mouth. He had just turned sixty but looked older.

These terrible episodes of pain were aging him. He couldn't understand it. He had always been so healthy and strong.
He still played tennis and golf. He scratched his head absently. The doctors had subjected him to a barrage of tests but could find nothing. He turned away from the mirror and made his way back into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed. He could hear his wife Julia clattering about in the kitchen downstairs. The muffled strains of the radio drifted upstairs.

He shuddered again. The room felt cold although he had closed the window. He realised he was thirsty and a little hungry too. His eyes fell on the old walking cane he once used for hiking over the moors. He grasped the cane and gave three resounding knocks on the floor. Julia came running up the stairs. She put her ash blonde head round the door and beamed at him.

'Feeling better darling?' she crooned.

'Well yes, I do as a matter of fact' he murmured.

'Shall I bring you something on a tray darling? What about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and a pot of Earl Grey? It's your favourite' she purred.

'Yes, that'd be lovely dear, but don't bother bringing it up. I'll come down'

'Are you sure darling? You look very pale'

'Perfectly sure' said George firmly 'By the way, don't you think the house is rather cold tonight?' He noted that she was wearing a heavy sweater and thick tights concealing her shapely legs.

'The central heating's on darling. Perhaps it's because you don't feel well' she said and whisked out of the room.

Downstairs in the kitchen Julia set about making George's supper. She moved about the kitchen with a measured efficiency that belied her sixty two years, humming to herself as she worked. She put a dish of raw beaten eggs into the microwave, four minutes on 'low heat' and then began to cut the smoked salmon into strips. Wonderful things microwaves. Julia never took modern technology for granted. DVD recorders, washing up machines, mobile phones and computers. How on earth did we manage without them? The microwave pinged, signalling the completion of the eggs. She stirred some double cream into the scrambled eggs then began to shape the smoked salmon into rolls. As she waited for the kettle to boil for the tea she cast her mind back to when she and George had first begun their affair. They were both married to other people in those days which gave their affair that exquisite frisson of excitement. Then, as luck would have it, Roger had a massive heart attack as she was driving him home one night. He had been hopelessly drunk as usual. However, her bereavement had been softened by a substantial inheritance. Roger, ever the pragmatist, had been heavily insured and there had been several weeks of retail therapy to help her get over her bereavment. Then poor Helena had succumbed to breast cancer leaving George hysterical with guilt and grief. she had been there to comfort him, naturally. 'She was my rock, my soulmate' he had sobbed, soiling the shoulder of her new Cashmere sweater with his snot.

Their relations had been sexually charged rather than sensual. She had to admit that she was rather highly sexed and somewhat demanding in that department. This suited them both however, although as time went on Julia realised that there were 'others.' Her shrewd blue eyes narrowed to cat's pupils as she remembered the lies, the subterfuge, the silent phone calls and the nights when George failed to come home. Well, they were both in their sixties now. The bloom of those fabulous fifties long faded. She ran her liver spotted hands down her body. She was no longer quite so slim, but her breasts were full and heavy. In her youth she had longed to be tall and statuesque but only reached five feet four. She supposed that they were both past their best. Now George stayed at home writing articles for the university. Now she knew exactly where he was.

Julia poured boiling water into a large brown teapot. She arranged the food on a tray and took it into the dining room. She went to the foot of the stairs to call George. Pausing at the central heating controls she turned the settings down to the minimum. Then she stepped lightly into the dining room humming gaily as she went.

* *
The evening sun began to slip down behind the hills. The air was heavy and oppressive There was no breeze to stir the dusty foliage of the trees. It had, in fact, been an exceptionally hot day and had exceeded record temperatures. The newspapers and TV were full of speculation about the weather. People were dying of the heat in France and Greece. Really quite bizarre. Everything in the garden was wilting except the lavender and Rosemary borders. The purple flowers were smothered in bees and the scent of the Rosemary wafted in through the open conservatory windows. It really did have quite a Mediterranean feel, but they needed another gardener now that Potts had decided to retire. Roger was incapable of doing anything in the garden, having neither the imagination or the committment.
The last rays of the sun lit up the surrounding hills painting them a delicate rose pink and casting long shadows in the meadows. The heat rose up from the scorched earth and wrapped the house in steamy warmth.
Julia sat staring listlessly into her dressing table mirror. Downstairs, a telephone was ringing somewhere in the house but she didn’t seem to hear it. She leaned towards the mirror and her small piercing blue eyes examined her face with studied care. She ran a finger down her rather large nose thoughtfully and then patted her peroxide hair. Beads of sweat bejewelled her upper lip. A bottle of Gordon’s gin and a glass stood on the dressing table. She poured a small amount of the liquor into the glass and sipped it reflectively.

Roger was late. That must have been him ringing just now. He was probably drunk and wanted her to come and pick him up from the White Hart. Roger’s drinking was beginning to intrude on their lives. The pub was becoming a second home. Perhaps the business wasn’t going so well. She couldn’t tell. Roger never discussed the business with her. Not that she cared one iota as long as she had free rein with her credit card. She loved shopping. Drunk with the power of spending. She adored staggering out of the stores, weighted down with numerous bags looped round her fingers, her face flushed with pleasure. Besides, if anything happened to Roger (perish the thought) she inherited everything. He was heavily insured.

Julia had always enjoyed receiving gifts and in the early days Roger had been especially generous and had showered her with expensive presents. She was not personally familiar with the act of giving to please others. It was more in her nature to receive.

When she was a child her father always brought home some little trifle for her delight. She remembered the china doll with golden hair that opened and closed its eyes and cried ‘Mama’ when it was turned over. Then there was the little bracelet, glinting gold, with opals flashing their mystical green fire. Her eyes darkened as she recalled the puppy he had brought home for her and her sister when their mother was in the hospital. It had been a little golden Labrador with huge eyes of velvet brown. She had never been comfortable with animals. They always needed something; feeding or taking for a walk or stroking. Sometimes she had forgotten to feed it. Her father was busy at the hospital with their mother so when the puppy fell into the fishpond one winter’s day and got tangled up in the netting used for catching the falling leaves, Julia could only watch its futile struggles and whimperings as it tried to scramble up out of the icy water. When its useless scrabbling and whining ceased, Julia stared curiously as the small body suddenly released its hold on life and floated out, belly-up, into the middle of the pond. She let out a great sigh and blew on her freezing fingers. Then she turned and ran toward the house scuffling through the dead leaves in her pretty fur lined boots.

She found her sister in the music room practising a song with Miss De Mielle the music teacher. She sat listening politely as her sister’s voice flew round the room like a swallow, dipping and soaring and finally coming to rest, vibrating on the low notes. It was a song full of tenderness and sadness and made Julia think about the puppy whose stiff little body had sunk into the waving tendrils of the underwater plants. She felt her face grow hot momentarily with guilt but then her discomfort quickly receded at the thought of the gifts her father might be bringing that evening. Without waiting for her sister to finish her music lesson she ran up the stairs two at a time to her room.