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Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
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“Notuntilfiddlesticks!”ThesnortMissHowardgavewastrulymagnificent.“You’realloffyourheads.Themanwillbeoutofthecountrybythen.Ifhe’sanysense,hewon’tstayheretamelyandwaittobehanged.”
JohnCavendishlookedatherhelplessly.
“Iknowwhatitis,”sheaccusedhim,“you’vebeenlisteningtothedoctors.Nevershould.Whatdotheyknow?Nothingatall—orjustenoughtomakethemdangerous.Ioughttoknow—myownfatherwasadoctor.ThatlittleWilkinsisaboutthegreatestfoolthatevenIhaveeverseen.Heartseizure!Sortofthinghewouldsay.Anyonewithanysensecouldseeatoncethatherhusbandhadpoisonedher.Ialwayssaidhe’dmurderherinherbed,poorsoul.Nowhe’sdoneit.Andallyoucandoistomurmursillythingsabout‘heartseizure’and‘inquestonFriday.’Yououghttobeashamedofyourself,JohnCavendish.”
“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”askedJohn,unabletohelpafaintsmile.“Dashitall,Evie,Ican’thaulhimdowntothelocalpolicestationbythescruffofhisneck.”
“Well,youmightdosomething.Findouthowhedidit.He’sacraftybeggar.Daresayhesoakedflypapers.Askcookifshe’smissedany.”
ItoccurredtomeveryforciblyatthatmomentthattoharbourMissHowardandAlfredInglethorpunderthesameroof,andkeepthepeacebetweenthem,waslikelytoproveaHerculeantask,andIdidnotenvyJohn.Icouldseebytheexpressionofhisfacethathefullyappreciatedthedifficultyoftheposition.
