A Taste of Honey

He sneezes out another burst of clear glutinous mucus into a tissue and drops it on the pile by the bed. His head, heavy with ache, falls back onto the pillow. With each swallow, the pain spreads across his neck and travels upwards like a wave, reaching the front of his forehead in a crashing throb.

Yet, for someone as intellectually sharp as he is, with several postgraduate degrees in chemical engineering and academic papers published in the world’s most prestigious science journals, the common cold won’t stop him from analysing precisely the situation he finds himself in at this moment.

He turns his head to look at the steaming mug of honey and lemon that his wife placed on the bedside table only a few minutes before. She is back in the kitchen below, running water and humming a tune he recognises. The wispy hot mist spirals upwards, fading to nothing. Observing the delicate motion, the thought repeats itself in his mind: he still loves her, but did she ever truly love him?

Perhaps yes, those days when they sat picking grass around them on trips to the countryside, laughing and forgetting the time of day.  They had discovered early on a shared passion for the works of Agatha Christie. For her part, she enjoyed the thrill of gentlefolk acting immorally for personal gain. Naturally, he was more interested in the merits of the poisons used. She would lean in enthralled as he spoke about the chemical advantages of arsenic in Murder is Easy or digitoxin in Appointment with Death.

The admiration showed in her eyes those days when they talked for hours and when he was juggling offers of academic posts in locations they could dream about but ultimately rejected: Switzerland, Boston, Persia.  He visited all those places on conferences, and came back with stories, her also having devoured another crime novel for them to pick apart together.

With the scientist’s perception, he understands the change in their marriage to have taken place over a period of time. The evidence is multi-faceted and leads to the same conclusion. The heaviness with which she puts the dinner plate before him the nights he returns late. Her disappointment when he explained that he was happy to stay in England and he had no desire to take up a post in Egypt : the heat!

Downstairs she is still humming that song she hums every time she thinks she has done a good job. As is her habit at this time every morning, she shuts the front door to go out to buy groceries.

His well-worn suitcase sits ready for action on the top shelf of the wardrobe. He won’t need to fill it with much. In his head he has a list of places he can start with.

As soon as the door clicks, he eases himself off the bed and takes the mug to the bathroom. He goes back into the bedroom and opens his chemical cabinet. In the jar labelled thallium sulphate the level of white powder has gone down by a fingernail.

So, she wanted him to suffer.

He returns to the bathroom and gently pours the liquid down the sink. More vapour reaches his nostrils and he is now sure. It smelled of honey. And something else. The invention he placed in the jar without her knowing – crystallised hemlock, cicutoxin. It has the faint parsnip smell he has trained himself to recognise. He has been prepared for this moment quite a while.

This story was inspired by the writing prompt to include the sentences ‘It smelled of honey. And something else.’