Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird

that they appeared to contain only some sort of powder. Even Crosby should be able to regard them with equanimity.
    Dr. Dabbe grinned. “Whatever you like. Gog and Magog?” he suggested. “Or William-and-Mary—no, not William-and-Mary”—he peered round the shelves of specimens—“I’ve got a hermaphrodite worm here somewhere called that.”
    â€œMutt and Jeff,” croaked Crosby.
    â€œHe’s feeling better,” said the pathologist kindly. “What about Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”
    â€œAntimony and Cleopatra?” contributed Dr. Writtle with a sly smile.
    â€œIt wasn’t, was it?” said Sloan. “Not antimony, I mean?”
    â€œâ€™Fraid not, Inspector,” said the analyst regretfully. “Nice pun if it had been, though. No, what we found was a barbiturate of a sort …”
    â€œFerdinand and Isabella,” interrupted Dabbe irrepressibly. “I’m sure they looked alike, too.”
    â€œTom and Jerry,” offered Crosby. He was back to his normal colour again now.
    â€œOne of the free barbiturates,” said Writtle. “That is to say, not a sodium derivative.”
    Sloan waited for enlightenment.
    The analyst pointed to the two bottles. “Those crystals have been extracted by ether and chloroform. If we make an aqueous solution of the residue of one of them …”
    â€œGog,” said Dr. Dabbe.
    â€œAnd,” went on Writtle, “then add one drop of Millon’s reagent we get a white gelatinous precipitate which is proof of the presence of a barbiturate.”
    â€œProof positive?” inquired Sloan. There was no word more loosely used than “proof”…
    â€œIt’ll stand up in court,” said Writtle, “if that’s what you mean. Especially with the other one.”
    â€œMagog,” said Dr. Dabbe helpfully.
    â€œWhen a trace of that one is dissolved in chloroform,” said the analyst, “and a one per cent solution of cobalt acetate added, you get a strong violet colour.”
    â€œâ€˜The dew that on the violet lies,’” murmured Dr. Dabbe poetically, “‘mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes.’ Sir Walter Scott. A neglected poet.”
    Crosby perked up upon the instant. “‘Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and.…’”
    Then he caught Sloan’s eye and his voice died away.
    â€œHow,” inquired Sloan gamely of Dr. Writtle, “was the barbiturate administered?”
    Crosby he could and would deal with later but there was absolutely nothing a mere detective inspector could do about a forensic pathologist with a bizarre sense of humour.
    â€œIn what chemical form, do you mean, Inspector? Probably in solution.” The Home Office analyst, at least, Sloan was glad to see, was still on the job. “It might just have been in a highly soluble uncoated tablet but we doubt it. The main thing is that it wasn’t in a capsule.”
    â€œWe looked for one,” said Dr. Dabbe.
    â€œThere was no sign of there having been a capsule,” said Dr. Writtle. “There was no gelatine present anywhere in the alimentary canal.”
    â€œAnd it couldn’t have gone far anyway,” added Dabbe cheerfully. “Not in the time.”
    â€œAh, yes, gentlemen,” said Sloan. “The time. When …”
    Writtle riffled through some papers. “It’s not all that easy to say, Inspector, especially if the substance was administered in solution …”
    â€œAnd perhaps in something he only sipped slowly,” interjected Dr. Dabbe, “from time to time—say a liqueur—over half an hour or more.”
    â€œBut we should be prepared to go so far as to say, Inspector,” said Dr. Writtle, “that it wasn’t—er—taken much before eight o’clock or much later than eleven.”
    Sloan wrote that down and noted the laboratory