IT WAS OVER an hour before Romulus rang me back. He had been helping at a difficult calving. Havinger, the horse quack, as he was known by the locals, was off work having been savaged by a pig.
‘Must have recognised a rival bore,’ Romulus had quipped, the vet being notorious for his rambling anecdotes.
‘Is this about the Poynder woman again?’ he asked. ‘I did write to her husband asking if there was anything I could do, but he has yet to reply.’
‘She is dead,’ I told him and took a breath, ‘and I think that she might have been murdered.’
There was a gasp.
‘Stop listening to this conversation,’ I snapped.
‘A slightly odd request,’ he observed a little stiffly, ‘even for someone as eccentric as you.’
Eccentric?
‘No not you, Rommy,’ I hastened to assure him and raised my voice again. ‘I was talking to the exchange operator.’
‘But I wint listenin’,’ a woman protested indignantly, untruthfully and illogically. ‘If there’s a murder, thoughs, I best report it to a policeman.’
‘He is a policeman,’ I claimed and Romulus cleared his throat.
‘No he int,’ she protested. ‘He’s a human doctor. He see to my young Jessical when she do be taken sadly-badly.’
‘Oh yes, it’s Mrs Fox,’ my cousin realised. ‘How is your daughter now?’
‘Nicely thank you,’ the operator replied. ‘Why yisday she walk all the way with young Jepsical to Stolham St Ernest.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ Romulus said. ‘But you must excuse me while I talk to Lady Violet.’
‘Lady Violet,’ Mrs Fox exclaimed. ‘Why I recollect you gettin’ stuck in tha’ witch hazel tree. Still up to all your capers, are you?’
‘I am trying to make a private phone call,’ I reminded her and, with some mumbling about me not being so high and mighty when she had helped to drag me out, Mrs Fox fell silent.
‘Murdered by whom?’ Romulus asked proving that he at least had not lost track of our conversation.
‘Her husband of course,’ I replied.
‘Why of course?’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘he is my only suspect.’
‘Hardly compelling evidence,’ my cousin pointed out, and I had to admit that my grounds for suspicion sounded rather feeble when I said them aloud. ‘What makes you think Mrs Poynder was murdered?’
‘I think she was poisoned,’ I replied, my confidence probably in as much need of medical attention as young Jessical had been.
I do not feel well, my confidence admitted.
My cousin clicked his tongue.
‘Why?’ he asked simply.
‘I do not know what his motives were,’ I admitted and Romulus snorted.
‘I meant what led you to suspect that?’
‘He locked her in her room.’
‘A wise precaution if she had violent spells.’
‘It does not feel right,’ I added weakly and readied myself to be patronised, but I should have trusted Romulus more.
‘Describe her symptoms again,’ he urged, though we had discussed this before.
‘She was confused,’ I said, ‘and suffered from delusions.’
‘Not inconsistent with a cerebral malignancy.’
‘And she told me that she had bad headaches.’
‘Ditto.’
‘And she fell asleep easily.’
‘Again ditto.’
‘And, to judge by her chamber pot…’ I recalled with a shudder.
‘Loose bowels?’
‘Yes.’
‘How was her hair?’ he asked quickly.
‘She lost a great deal of it.’
‘Did you touch her?’
‘Only her hand. It was cold and clammy.’
‘Arsenic,’ he pronounced.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I would need to get some tests done, but the symptoms are highly suggestive.’
‘Then we must apply to have an autopsy performed.’
‘Easier said than done. Dr Poynder is a respected man, as is Dr Cronshaw. Both are in the Warreners, and Wilson, the coroner, is the chief keeper of the Montford Lodge.’
‘Are you in the Lodge?’ From that and previous conversations, he seemed to know a great deal about it.
‘I would be snared and skinned if I told you that,’ he replied, and I was not sure if he was joking as I would have thought that any secret society would be anathema to him. ‘And my foot made into a lucky charm,’ Romulus added, confirming my suspicions.
‘What about the home secretary?’
‘Asquith might have obliged,’ Romulus mused, ‘but Ridley has only just been appointed. Post-mortem examinations against the wishes of the next of kin tend to be highly unpopular, especially if they are inconclusive.’ He puffed. ‘Besides which, if it is poisoning, it must be chronic and arsenic is excreted into the hair.’
‘How much would you need?’
‘As much as possible.’
‘And how would I get hold of that?’
‘What would Miss Gibson do?’
I was wondering when somebody would ask for my opinion, Ruby said, because I have already devised a daring plan.
I did not care for the sound of that, especially as I would be the one who had to execute her scheme.
‘She would think about it,’ I told my cousin.
‘Well don’t think for too long,’ he advised. ‘If Dr Poynder did murder his wife he will hold the funeral as soon as possible.’
Does this plan involve hot air balloons? I asked warily.
It might, Ruby admitted.
I have a simpler and safer idea, Havelock Hefty announced.
Then that is what I shall do, I decided. Probably, I added because, when I thought about it, Hefty’s plan may have been simpler but it did not seem especially safe either.