Bear Island by Alistair MacLean

been known to be as long as forty-eight-not that the period of incubation delay made the final results any less fatal. It was faintly possible that Antonio might have scoffed, say, a tin of infected truffles or suchlike from his homeland in the course of the afternoon, but in that case the symptoms would have been showing at the dinner table, and apart from his odd chartreuse hue I'd observed nothing untoward. It had to be some form of systemic poison, but there were so many of them and I was a long way from being an expert on the subject. Nor was there any necessary question of foul play: more people die from accidental poisoning than from the machinations of the ill-disposed.
        The lee door opened and two people came staggering into the room, both young, both bespectacled, both with faces all but obscured by wind-blown hair. They saw me, hesitated, looked at each other and made to leave, but I waved them in and they came, closing the door behind them. They staggered across to my table, sat down, pushed the hair from their faces and I identified them as Mary Darling, our continuity girl, and Allen-nobody knew whether he had another name or whether that was his first or second one-the clapper-loader. He was a very earnest youth who had recently been asked to leave his university. He was an intelligent lad but easily bored. Intelligent but a bit short on wisdom-he regarded film-making as the most glamorous job on earth.
        "Sorry to break in on you like this, Dr. Marlowe." Allen was very apologetic, very respectful. "We had no idea-to tell you the truth we were both looking for a place to sit down.”
        “And now you've found a place. I'm just leaving. Try some of Mr. Gerran's excellent Scotch-you both look as if you could do with a little." They did, indeed, look very pale.
        "No, thank you, Dr. Marlowe. We don't drink." Mary Darling-everyone called her Mary darling-was cast in an even more earnest mould than Allen and had a very prim voice to go with it. She had very long straight almost platinum hair that fell any old how down her back and that clearly hadn't been submitted to the attentions of a hairdresser for years: she must have broken Antonio's heart. She wore a habitually severe expression, enormous horn-rimmed glasses, no makeup-not even lipstick-and had about her a businesslike, competent, no-nonsense, I-can-take-care-of myself-thank-you attitude that was so transparently false that no one had the heart to call her bluff.
        "No room at the inn?" I asked.
        Well," Mary Darling said, "It's not very private down in the recreation room, is it? As for those three young-young'
        "The Three Apostles do their best," I said mildly. "Surely the lounge was empty?”
        “It was not." Allen tried to look disapproving but I thought his eyes crinkled. "There was a man there. In his pyjamas. Mr. Gilbert." He had a big bunch of keys in his hands." Mary Darling paused, pressed her lips together, and went on: "He was trying to open the doors where Mr. Gerran keeps all his bottles.”
        “That sounds like Lonnie," I agreed. It was none of my business. If Lonnie found the world so sad and so wanting there was nothing much I or anybody could do about it: I just hoped that Otto didn't catch him at it. I said to Mary: "You could always try your cabin.”
        “Oh, no! We couldn't do that!”
        “No, I suppose not." I tried to think why not, but I was too old. I took my leave and passed through the stewards" pantry into the galley. It was small, cow-pact, immaculately clean, a minor culinary symphony in stainless steel and white tile. At this late hour I had expected it to be deserted, but it wasn't: Haggerty, the chief cook, with his regulation chef's hat foursquare on his greying clipped hair, was bent over some pots on a stove. He turned round, looked at me in mild surprise.
        "Evening, Dr. Marlowe." He smiled. "Carrying out a medical inspection of my