horrible as strychnine and then stick around to witness the dying.”
“I agree, Patsy. It’s a good thing for her that she did go upstairs to get the kids ready for school.”
“You’ve only got her word for it.”
“I have the kids’ words as well. They’re a little young to be coached as accomplices. What brought them all downstairs was the noise their father made, and though Mrs. Norton did try to shoo the kids away, they both witnessed the death. I’m inclined to believe Mrs. Norton’s story that she squeezed the juice before going upstairs, and that she was up there for ten minutes before she heard her husband go down to breakfast, which he ate running.”
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” said Patrick.
“Usually, yes, but not always. What makes you think this is not a female poisoner?”
“That window of opportunity. Literally, as the juice could only be seen through the kitchen window, but not reached through it. Seizing an opportunity on the spur of the moment isn’t very female, yet that’s what this killer had to do. See the juice, go in the back door, add a hefty dose of strychnine to the glass, then leave. What if someone had come downstairs? He’d have been discovered, so he must have had a convincing story ready. No, this poisoner is a man.”
“Chauvinist,” Carmine said slyly. “What about Dean Denbigh?”
“Oh, that one’s up for grabs—and you know it! Potassium cyanide crystals mixed with jasmine tea leaves inside a perfect bag in turn enclosed inside a hermetically sealed paper packet that my technicians are willing to swear in court was opened only once—by Dean Denbigh himself. And the tea bag is machine stitched, not stapled—stitched only once, those swearing technicians again. All four of the students invited to his klatch were men.”
“While Dr. Pauline Denbigh the wife held her own klatch around the corner in her study,” Carmine said with a grin. “Her guests were all women.”
“‘Klatch’ is disrespectful,” Patrick said solemnly. “Granted, you can’t very well call morning coffee a soiree, yet I gather the function operated rather like one—poetry read out, and so forth.”
“It should really be matinee, but that’s taken. How about a matutinal recitation?”
“Spot on, Carruthers! Your Limey wife is showing.”
“But you like her better now, Patsy, don’t you?” Carmine asked anxiously.
“Of course I do! She’s ideal for you, and that alone makes me love her. I guess it was being towered over that set me against her, and that snooty Limey thing. But now I know she’s brave, and gallant, and very smart. She’s also sexy,” Patrick said, still trying to mend his fences. Carmine’s doubts were receding, but it was still a conversationthey had from time to time. The trouble was, Patrick hadn’t read the signals correctly, hadn’t known just how deep Carmine’s feelings for the lady were. If he had, he would never have breathed a disparaging word about her. And Sandra she wasn’t, thank God.
“Anything else in Denbigh’s blood?” Carmine asked.
“Nothing.”
“What about Desmond Skeps?”
Patrick’s face lit up. “Oh, he’s a doozy, Carmine! He had no long-term drugs or toxins in his blood, but he got a cocktail the day he died.”
“Day?” Carmine asked, frowning.
“Yes, I think the process started well before the sun went down—maybe as early as four in the afternoon, when he took a glass of single-malt Scotch laced with chloral hydrate. While he was out, the killer put a Luer-Lok IV needle in his left intercubital fossa and taped it down. It stayed until he was dead.”
“The same technique as Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Superficially. The similarity ended with the introduction of the IV. Mrs. Cartwright was killed as soon as the needle was in the vein, but that wasn’t Skeps’s fate. He was intubated and given a medical curare that enabled the killer to inflict painful bodily harm on the poor bastard, too
“I agree, Patsy. It’s a good thing for her that she did go upstairs to get the kids ready for school.”
“You’ve only got her word for it.”
“I have the kids’ words as well. They’re a little young to be coached as accomplices. What brought them all downstairs was the noise their father made, and though Mrs. Norton did try to shoo the kids away, they both witnessed the death. I’m inclined to believe Mrs. Norton’s story that she squeezed the juice before going upstairs, and that she was up there for ten minutes before she heard her husband go down to breakfast, which he ate running.”
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” said Patrick.
“Usually, yes, but not always. What makes you think this is not a female poisoner?”
“That window of opportunity. Literally, as the juice could only be seen through the kitchen window, but not reached through it. Seizing an opportunity on the spur of the moment isn’t very female, yet that’s what this killer had to do. See the juice, go in the back door, add a hefty dose of strychnine to the glass, then leave. What if someone had come downstairs? He’d have been discovered, so he must have had a convincing story ready. No, this poisoner is a man.”
“Chauvinist,” Carmine said slyly. “What about Dean Denbigh?”
“Oh, that one’s up for grabs—and you know it! Potassium cyanide crystals mixed with jasmine tea leaves inside a perfect bag in turn enclosed inside a hermetically sealed paper packet that my technicians are willing to swear in court was opened only once—by Dean Denbigh himself. And the tea bag is machine stitched, not stapled—stitched only once, those swearing technicians again. All four of the students invited to his klatch were men.”
“While Dr. Pauline Denbigh the wife held her own klatch around the corner in her study,” Carmine said with a grin. “Her guests were all women.”
“‘Klatch’ is disrespectful,” Patrick said solemnly. “Granted, you can’t very well call morning coffee a soiree, yet I gather the function operated rather like one—poetry read out, and so forth.”
“It should really be matinee, but that’s taken. How about a matutinal recitation?”
“Spot on, Carruthers! Your Limey wife is showing.”
“But you like her better now, Patsy, don’t you?” Carmine asked anxiously.
“Of course I do! She’s ideal for you, and that alone makes me love her. I guess it was being towered over that set me against her, and that snooty Limey thing. But now I know she’s brave, and gallant, and very smart. She’s also sexy,” Patrick said, still trying to mend his fences. Carmine’s doubts were receding, but it was still a conversationthey had from time to time. The trouble was, Patrick hadn’t read the signals correctly, hadn’t known just how deep Carmine’s feelings for the lady were. If he had, he would never have breathed a disparaging word about her. And Sandra she wasn’t, thank God.
“Anything else in Denbigh’s blood?” Carmine asked.
“Nothing.”
“What about Desmond Skeps?”
Patrick’s face lit up. “Oh, he’s a doozy, Carmine! He had no long-term drugs or toxins in his blood, but he got a cocktail the day he died.”
“Day?” Carmine asked, frowning.
“Yes, I think the process started well before the sun went down—maybe as early as four in the afternoon, when he took a glass of single-malt Scotch laced with chloral hydrate. While he was out, the killer put a Luer-Lok IV needle in his left intercubital fossa and taped it down. It stayed until he was dead.”
“The same technique as Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Superficially. The similarity ended with the introduction of the IV. Mrs. Cartwright was killed as soon as the needle was in the vein, but that wasn’t Skeps’s fate. He was intubated and given a medical curare that enabled the killer to inflict painful bodily harm on the poor bastard, too
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