“Apparently.”
Sir Frederick frowned and looked from the victim to the door and back again. “What I don’t understand is this. If Mr. Oliver was sitting there on the chaise, across the room from the door, how did his assailant sneak up on him to deliver the blow? Assuming whoever it was stole a key or picked the lock and let himself in, Oliver would have heard the door open and seen the person approach, likely with weapon in hand. Why sit there so complacently, so vulnerably? Why not rise to his full height and face his foe? Much harder to deliver a blow to the top of a man’s head when he is well over six feet tall.”
The older man nodded. “Good point. Perhaps he had fallen asleep and was a heavy sleeper.”
“Or maybe he’d been drugged ... or even poisoned.”
Rebecca’s pulse began to accelerate.
The doctor stared at him. “I say. What a thought.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if true, who could have done it? The maid who brought his meals?”
Rebecca gasped. “Mary would never—!” She amended, “Not knowingly, that is.”
Sir Frederick said, “Or the chef himself or anyone in the kitchen could have done it, and Mary unknowingly delivered drugged coffee or poisoned soup.” He gestured to a tray holding a bowl, a cup, and a plate scraped clean. “There’s what remains of the meal sent up last night.”
Dr. Fox winced in thought. “If you are right, the culprit gave the drug time to work, then returned, struck the guard, and went inside to finish off the author.”
Rebecca asked, “Why would the chef wish him any harm?”
“Perhaps he complained about the food.”
Dr. Fox snorted. “Seems unlikely.”
“I agree, though people have killed for lesser reasons.”
Rebecca regarded the coffee cup and soup bowl, both mostly empty apart from murky dregs. Might Ambrose Oliver have been drugged? Probably only one of the hotel staff would have opportunity to adulterate food or drink sent up to the man, she reasoned, trying to reassure herself. But why would any of them do so?
Apparently having a similar thought, Sir Frederick lifted and sniffed both cup and bowl, then offered them to Dr. Fox. “I don’t smell anything. But are not some poisons odorless?”
“I believe so.”
“Is there any evidence he’s been drugged or poisoned?” Rebecca asked, hoping her anxiety did not show.
“Nothing obvious. Not without an autopsy.” Dr. Fox pointedto Mr. Oliver’s face and hands, and explained for her benefit, “We noticed these black smudges before, here on his lips and fingers, and assumed it was ink. Probably is. Arsenic poisoning can cause blackening of the tongue and lips, but with all the ink on his hands and shirt cuffs, I still think ink stains seem far more likely.”
Sir Frederick nodded. “Any idea how long he has been dead?”
“I am no expert in postmortems, I’m afraid. I would estimate at least an hour or two before I first examined him this morning.”
Sir Frederick said, “Logically speaking, he would have been killed soon after Mr. George was attacked. Someone struck George this morning between eight and nine. How long would you guess he remained senseless before Mary saw him and shouted the alarm? Would he have remained senseless a full hour?”
“He has a nasty head wound, true enough, so it’s quite possible.”
“So that probably means whoever did this struck Mr. George shortly after eight, and with him out of the way, somehow forced his way in and delivered the fatal blow to Mr. Oliver.”
Rebecca thought of an alternate solution. She hesitated to suggest it but decided Mr. Oliver would probably not have invited her brother into his room. She said, “There is another option that requires neither drugs nor poison nor lock picking. Mr. Oliver might have known whoever it was and willingly let him or her in, and sat back down. Then this person could have taken him by surprise.”
“And the weapon?” Frederick asked.
She thought, then said, “Perhaps concealed in a sleeve or under a cloak. Or it might have been something already here in the room.”
“Good point.”
They looked around for likely objects. The water jug, perhaps? No, the earthenware would have shattered. The fire iron? Frederick picked up the iron and wiped the end with his handkerchief. No trace of blood.
