Two Beards Blue

The Poisoners Club had only two members. Founded only seven years prior, in the year of our Lord, 1945, for reasons which will soon become known, it was a club whose survival depended on the secrecy of both members. Not only the life of club, in fact, but that of its two members as well. Had it been a club of one it would have contained more than enough audacity, confidence of self, and unashamed sociopathy to kill ten upright persons ten times over. Its two members were each two cues from the very same rack. Their table was the world of romance. They considered themselves gentlemen playing a gentlemen's sport. In the convenient spirit of how these things often eventuate, one of the pair was thin and rakish, in size and spirit; the other rotund but handsome, his pudgy face expressing a childlike naivete that was the perfect mask for his inner wiliness.

The thin man could be said to be the more cultured. He was a natural born gentleman; first an Etonian, then a man of letters; having read English at Oxford, he attained his degree before acquiring his fortune and settling into his estate on his father’s death. The plump man was a Rugby boy, later going into the trades, having been set up to be an apprentice carpenter with his own father. He had won in big in the football pools. Fortune had not eradicated his West Midlands accent.

‘You know, Terence,’ said the thin man to the plump, ‘our game is rather like snooker.’

‘And howd’ye come by that, Julius?’

‘Why, my good man, these here cues,’ he said this, taking one from the rack, ‘these are us.’

Julius looked at him with the appearance of open-mindedness, waiting to hear if the analogy would fit.

‘The balls are the ladies. We merely give them a gentle tap, and they drop into the pocket; and then we collect.’

‘That’s the worst analajay oi think’ve heard yet from ye. Balls. Women. Huh! And oi’ll say thars a lot mar to it than that.’ He made sure to highlight the last two words like a prizefighter landing a one two.

‘Yes. Yes. There is the uncomfortable reality of the situation. But this is the price we pay. And I dare say our gains outweigh our losses.’

‘Do yer never feel a sense of shame?’

Julius lined up a shot, he tapped the white ball, hitting a red into the far left corner pocket.

‘No,’ he answered, nonchalantly, standing up straight with the grace of a giraffe.

‘Oi do it for the need, that’s all,’ said Terence.

‘Yes, because you have need. Interficis propter necesse. Whereas, for me, interfecio ludo.’

‘Yer know Oi don’t know yer Roman.’

‘I simply mean that you, though rich, are a nouveau riche, that’s a newly rich, and that you retain that frugality of spirit of the working class man, and that as a working class man in spirit you have as much worry for your present pennies as you did your past pounds, and you employ yourself in our occupation so that you’ll have a tidy nest full of good, golden eggs should everything fall apart. For you, it is a job, and your victims provide your super annuity; for me it is superfluous money.’

‘What do yer mean, ‘everything fall apart,’ Terence asked suspiciously.

‘If you were run out of victims, or worse, lose your charms. We both know, from experience, that a bluebeard is the most charming of creatures. It is imperative that he be. He must be like treacle to an ant. They must be attracted to him, not he to his victims. It must not look as if he is the hunter, but as if he is the patient trap, waiting for the eager victim. The bluebeard is like the flytrap flower.’

The charms that Terence spoke of were thus: for Terence himself, it was, as the reader would have guessed, the gift of the gab; for Julius, his manliness, strength, and seriousness of manner. Julius was an open book, Terence a slow burn, a subtle creature, gruff but gentle. It was the latter’s gentleness of character, and pathetic passions, that were to be the end of both men.

It will help the reader to understand something very important before we continue on to the dénouement of our little story. The two men had up to this time managed to kill five wealthy widows between them: three the victims of Terence, two of Julius. It was Terence who had identified the gap left in the love market after the War, with many women suddenly widows, and the never married finding themselves dry of the supply of potential husbands. Both men had initially started out with any woman of wealth in mind, but had soon found it to be of lesser trouble if they went after women who, though nowhere near being considered elderly, were at the stage of life where death by natural causes would not be viewed with great cause for suspicion. It also chanced that both men had a rare condition whereby they were insusceptible to a particular toxin. Certainly, a large dose could kill them, but it was a dose that must needs be several times the allowable limit, which for an average human, was a limit of zero. They were always alert to the possibility that the frequency of their widowerhood would raise one curious eyebrow of the local detective. They therefore not only moved to a different town after each murder, but changed their names. Being that they were immune to the effects of any poison, they could eat the very same dinner that they had used to poison their victims. And what was the poison of choice? Mushrooms. But let us continue the story.

It happened that Terence had found himself a new potential victim. She was younger than most of the others. She was 45, pretty, and graceful of manner. She had all the elegance of Terence but the sincerity of Julius. It had been a rule from the founding day of the club that neither man would ever meet the other’s victim until they saw their picture on the front of the morning’s paper. This was done so as to avoid what would eventuate on this occasion: that one man would fall in love with the other’s intended victim, and that such complications of emotion might lead to a swinging end for both men.

It had so chanced that Julius, though Terence warned him never to do so outside of club hours - which was the one time his victims were not shopping or playing bridge - had popped in to say hello. Being greeted at the door by the angelic Sophie, for that was how she introduced herself, Julius had fallen head over heels in love.

‘You can’t be in love with her, you stupid, stupid man.’

‘Oi can, and Oi'yam.’

The two men were in the snooker room the next day, bickering over brandy and cigars.

‘I say it’s not cricket. It’s not kosher. It’s not in the spirit of the laws. It’s not. It’s not. You. You sir, are a Judas.’

‘How am moy a Judas? Yer crooked-legged cockroach. Are yer Christ himself? Even if yer arre oi haven’t betrayed ye… yet.’

‘But you will. Even if you don’t intend it. Stay away from my wife.’

‘You won’t do it, oi tell you.’

‘And how are you going to stop me.’

‘Oi don’t know, but oil think've a woy. Oi love that woman. Her beau’y has made it so that I’m ready to give up me murderous ways and set’le down to a noice loife wivout a spo'of mushrooms, which frankly oim sick’off.’

‘Is that so? You’re sick of mushrooms.’

‘Paisonous and not. All fungus I’m sick off.’

‘Well. I’m just going to have to bide my time and wait until you’re asleep.’

‘Oi don’t intend to sleep. Oi intend to sty awake at least long enough to rescue her.’

‘You don’t have a plan, you foolish man…’

Just then there were footsteps upstairs. Julius put a figure to his lips to tell Terence to be quiet.

‘It’s too late,’ said Terence with futility. ‘There’s no way for you to get out without walking passed her. You have to stay for dinner. It looks bad if I don’t let you stay She’s always asking about you, and why you never visit, and if I let you go now she will think it's all me, which it is, but I don’t want her to think that. I don’t want her to think I’m not good to my friends. It might put her off. That is, unless you want to make an excuse. Maybe you have a doctor’ appointment or something.’

‘Oi’m fi' as a fiddle.’

‘If you insist. You leave me no choice. I hope you like mushrooms.’

With that, Terence ascended the stairs. Julius ran after, still not sure exactly what it was he planned to do. They two men were greeted by the lovely Sophie, who looked up at them from her place on the divan, where she had been reading a penny dreadful novel. She was raven haired, her skin bleached white; she was tall, not as tall as Terence, but tall for a woman; her slender arms stretched out for her husband. He knelt down to hug her, as Sophie looked over his shoulder at Julius, giving that Pickwickian man a smile, her eyes lighting up in true admiration. She didn’t love him like he loved her, but she sensed something in him that she could admire.

‘My husband has prepared quite the banquet I smell,’ she said.

‘No, darling, just a little risotto.’

‘Wiv mushrooms,’ piped in Julius.

‘You approve of mushrooms, Julius?’ Sophie enquired.

‘He loves them,’ Terence got in quickly, ‘He’s always eating them. He’s served them to all of his wives.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Not all of your wives at the same time, I hope, Julius.’

‘Poor Julius has been quite unlucky in love. Whereas most men who are called unlucky in that area are the poor victims of heartbreak, unrequited love and such, Julius seems to be the victim of a jealous God, who takes his wives from him like Agamemnon taking Briseis from Achilles.’

‘You’re quite the lady killer, Julius.’

The plump man blushed with what might have been both fear and embarrassment.

Terence leaned close into him, whispering in his ear, ‘I’ll give you up before you do me. She’ll never believe you when I get through spinning my yarn.’

‘Yes, yes, darling,’ Julius said smiling, ‘it’s quite the joke among the men at the club. We all make fun of him over it.

‘Why, that’s cruel, Terence. I never thought you to be a cruel man. A little on the wicked side, yes, but cruel?’

‘It’s all in fun. Besides, Julius has made a kind of sport of it. Each time he gets married he tries to see if he can break his previous record. So far it’s one year and ten days. That was wife the last, also called wife number four, also known as Matilda Hartleypool.’

Terence looked at Julius as he said the name. The latter flared red.

'Where have I heard that name before,' wondered Sophie.

As she thought, she whistled out of the room and down the hall to the bedroom to get into something more becoming dinner.

When she was out of range, Julius roared in a semi-suppressed bellow, ‘she was yours. Hartleypool was yours.’

‘Whose going to believe that. Sophie is just as likely to believe you are a bluebeard as she is to believe I am; because, the fact, my good fellow club member, is that you are bluebeard.’

‘As are you.’

‘But I’ve set you up for suspicion, see. I need only to alter the story slightly to take you from an unfortunate repeat widower to a wily architect; no, a cunning chef. Yes. That’s a better analogy.’

Sophie walked back into the scene, and the three sat down to eat. Terence served, starting with Sophie.

‘No, dear, guests first.’

Reluctantly, Terence served his soon to be erstwhile friend.

‘Is that enough, Julius,’ said Terence mockingly.

‘Quite.’

‘Well, isn’t this lovely,’ beamed Sophie,

‘Very,’ said Julius, with all the eagerness of a man about to have his last meal.

Just as Sophie went to take her first bite, Julius made as if he were swatting a fly, and hit the spoon out of her hand. It went flying through the air and landed on the divan in the next room.

‘Julius!’ shouted Terence. ‘Thank you very much. Now at least my wife understands why you don’t come to dinner.’

‘So you don’t invite him,’ said Sophie, ‘you always said he doesn’t like to intrude.’

‘Why, yes, dear, because his table manners are appalling, and he knows it.’

‘I apologise, Sophie. I thought I saw a bug of some species on your spoon,’ he turned to look at Terence, ‘ I realise now it must have been a reflection.’

Julius glared at him. ‘I say, it’s rather cold. You look as if you are turning blue, fat man. Your nose looks blue, your ears look blue, your beard even looks blue.’

Sophie spat out her food. She spluttered. Julius looked at her in panic. He looked down at the table, where some food had landed. It was rice. He breathed. But it had the sauce on it. The mushroom sauce. He quickly ate his dinner, then before Sophie could take another bite, he snatched up her plate and ate the whole lot.

‘I say, Julius, you are a wolf, a ravenous wolf, a pitiless wretched wolf.’

‘It’s ok, darling. I’ll just have some Welsh rarebit.’

Julius glowered at Terence. ‘You know, this was why they should never let your kind out into the wild.’

‘Why are you being so rude?’ Sophie demanded.

‘I’m not being rude. He’s being making a fool of himself because because.’

‘I love you, Sophie.’

She smiled. ‘Oh, how sweet.’

‘You want to have her so you can kill her. YOU want us all to feel sorry for you. You’re addicted to misery.’

Terence couldn’t hold it in. ‘It’s not true. If it were true Oi woulda dunnit before. But oi didn’t.’

‘What are you saying, old fool, you’re drunk on mushroom poison.’

Sophie suddenly looked up and took notice. She had been drowning out their bickering, but this piqued her interest.

'Now I know where I've heard that name,' she said, with a blank expression.

‘I meant to say brandy,’ corrected Terence. He turned back to Julius.

‘You know, old man, I think that’s the last of our friendship. You won’t be seeing me again, and you certainly won’t be seeing Sophie.’

At this, Julius stood up. ‘He’s trying to kill you, Sophie. He’s done it before. Don’t be fooled. He’s had more wives than me.’

'That's where I've heard the name.'

‘You RAT!’

‘He’s had five wives before you, all killed in the same way.’

Sophie was frozen still. She was open mouthed and breathless. Her heart raced inside her.

‘You’re going down with me, fat man.’

Julius stood up.

‘Darling, it’s true that I’ve had wives before you. Yes. Five wives. Five wives who have sadly passed from this mortal coil. Five wives who all died of allergic reactions. How was I to know that they all happened to be allergic to mushrooms.’

‘They weren’t allergic, except to piesan loike most people.’

‘But not like you, fat man. If these mushrooms really are poisonous, how is that you have managed to wolf down two servings, and I’m half way through mine. I think that you just wanted to greedily devour poor famished Sophie’s. Is there no end to your selfish greed?’

‘It’s not true, Sophie. They are piesanned mushrooms. Oi can prove it. Go into the garden and grabbed a bunch of toadstools. Givem to me raw. Givem to yer husband raw. Putem in a samwich, putem in a soup; you shan’t be likely ta kill us if yer gave us the meadow full.’

Julius than confessed it all. He laid out all that the men had done, and what they had planned to do.

A year later, the trial of the two men, for they were tried jointly, was over, and the judge had given his closing marks. Having donned the black cloth cap that spoke a foregone conclusion of their fate, he waved them away to their doom, and destiny with their maker.

Julius was first to go. He went to the gallows with the grace befitting his character. Sophie was there to farewell the man who had saved her life. She smiled at him from the crowd, but turned her head just as the rope dropped and twisted Julius’ neck.

The next day would be Terence’s turn. The governor had given him one last request. A last meal. Terence, with comically aware irony, had chosen mushrooms. He had specified the particular species of poisonous mushroom that he wanted, and had reassured the governor that it wouldn’t even cause hallucinations, nor any mild cramps or vomiting, nothing to interfere with the hanging process.

On the final morning of his life, the now sorry looking Terence, the very contrast of his now dead friend, sat in his cell, shoving his face full of highly poisonous mushrooms, and barely flinching. Some of the guards vomited on the spot. The governor looked over at Terence in disgust. He devoured the mushrooms with orgiastic glee. He smothered them all over his face.

‘How could such a handsome, educated, well-spoken, upper-class gentleman be a cold-blooded bluebeard. A low murderer.’ wondered one of the guards.

‘Because,’ mumbled, Terence, teeth stain with mushrooms. ‘I’m evil.’