The Curious Incident at Claridge's by R.T. Raichev Page B

would be corroborated by the waiters and the maître d’ … Payne too would be able to testify to the terrified expression on Penelope’s face … She looks a picture of guilt, Payne had said … Payne looked and sounded trustworthy … Payne would make a perfect witness … Yes .
    No, the girlie couldn’t risk it.
    Jesty went on examining his reflection in the mirror. He opened his eyes wide, then narrowed them. He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. He gave himself a wink. He looked good, but then he always looked good. He smelled good too. This new aftershave was quite something. He regarded his moustache critically. Not exactly what he expected—well, not yet—he needed to be patient. Moustaches were funny things. Must phone Xandra, he suddenly remembered. Must tell her I couldn’t see her today. Couldn’t see her ever again, perhaps. She would be terribly disappointed of course—nay, inconsolable. He smiled. He enjoyed being pined after. He adored being adored. He rather liked the idea of breaking hearts too.
    The death of Sir Seymour Tradescant was yet to be announced. Jesty had got up early and bought all the morning papers, starting with the tabloids; he had also glanced at the news online, but there was nothing about it. The only deaths the Mirror announced were a tragic accident (family in Fife perishing in fire) and a suspected suicide (woman chucking herself from top of house in Mayfair). Nothing on the box or the radio either.
    Curious. Perhaps it was too soon? Perhaps the Tradescant family were managing to keep Sir Seymour’s unnatural end out of the news. If you had money and influence you could do that sort of thing, he imagined, though they couldn’t conceal the death indefinitely . Could the police have decided not to release any information while they were conducting their investigation? Maybe it would be in the later edition of the Evening Standard.
    What was it the girlie had said? Something about him ‘getting the wrong end of the stick’? What the devil did she mean by that? She was clearly trying to wriggle out of it. The wrong end of the stick my foot, Jesty thought. Could his eyes have deceived him? No. Of course not. Out of the question. The girlie swapped the capsules all right. What else if not poison could there have been inside the capsule? The fact that she had agreed to a rendezvous was as good an admission of guilt as any.
    He could have saved the pantaloon’s life, he supposed. He could have dashed out—caught up with them before they reached the exit—tapped the pantaloon on the shoulder and advised him not to take the capsule if he wished to remain in good health— flush it down the loo, old boy, or better, have it analysed by one of those toxicologist fellows.
    Why hadn’t he done it? Why hadn’t he run after the pantaloon? Had he feared making a fool of himself? No, that was not the reason. He hadn’t warned the pantaloon because—if he had to be perfectly honest—because he’d wanted the pantaloon to swallow the poison and die … Yes … He’d wished the pantaloon poisoned, so that he, Jesty, could have the girlie to himself, at his mercy. To do with her as he jolly well pleased. He’d envisaged establishing some sort of a hold over her. How curious. Jesty frowned. Did that mean then that he’d known, instinctively known, even at that early stage that the pantaloon was the girlie’s aged husband? Yes. He seemed to have a sixth sense about that sort of thing.
    Jesty’s hand went up to his moustache. He had made love to all sorts of women—from barmaids to baronesses—but never before to a poisoner. Or if he had, he wasn’t aware of the fact. The idea of making love to a poisoner was oddly titillating. He licked his lips. Was the girlie likely to try the same trick on him? Slip something into his drink—attempt to eliminate the witness, eh?