O’Malley returned from his reconnoiter of the house, waving a book. “From the doctor’s bedside drawer.” He passed it to the inspector.
Tennant opened to the title page. “Well, well.Pleasure Gardens,” he said, then flipped through the rest of the book. “Pleasures indeed. All the altered Chinese paintings gathered between two covers.” Tennant returned it to O’Malley. “It’s evidence that Allingham’s collection was published.”
“An easy guess who printed them, I’m thinking.”
“Did the servants have anything useful to say?”
“The doctor wasn’t one for keeping a large staff. There’s no cook. The man was eating his meals at the Topkapi most nights. The housekeeper would leave a sandwich on the evenings he stayed home.”
“Is she a reliable witness?”
“Ancient and deaf as a post. Heard nothing in the night and didn’t go downstairs after eight o’clock.”
“Other servants?”
“A young housemaid. She’s the one who found him, poor lass.”
“And the front door?”
“Locked but not on the chain. They’d fastened the windows and bolted the back door.” O’Malley circled the stained carpet. “Are we thinking the creature knew we were closing in and took the easy way out?”
“Not a painless death, according to the doctor. Perhaps someone removed a weak link in the chain.”
“There’s the single glass and no evidence he had company.”
“There are three others on the shelf. Someone might have replaced their glass and slipped away, leaving the door unchained.”
“’Tis possible.”
“Still, we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, Paddy.”
“Sir?” A young constable with an empty crate came into the room.
“Pack up the bottles and the glass,” Tennant said. “And take the three clean ones as well. Have them tested for traces.”
Tennant ran his finger along a line of navy-blue, leather-bound casebooks. He stopped at the end of the row and slipped two volumes from the shelf, the record of Scott’s patients for the past two years. He looked around a final time and opened the door for the officer with the crate.
“We’re finished here, Paddy. Let’s hear what Doctor Lewis has to say.”
* * *
Julia stood at the head of the autopsy table. Her gaze flicked to Inspector Tennant and back to Dr. Scott’s corpse.
The room was small, and the bulbous glass shades of two oil lamps glowed brightly over the examining table. Julia had nearly reached the end of the procedure. She listened to Tennant struggle to control his breathing. He didn’t have to standover her while she worked, but he did it time and again as if testing himself in a trial by ordeal.Why?Julia wanted to ask him. She looked at his strained, pale face, and her heart ached.Who shares your burdens? No one, she suspected. She wanted to cross the room and take his hands. Draw him close and whisper,Tell me.
“Richard . . .” Her voice sounded strained to her ears.
He dragged his gaze from the body and looked at her. “Yes?”
“I . . .” She turned away to look in her medical bag. “I’m nearly finished. I’ll meet you outside, shall I?”
“Very well.”
She heard the doors swing shut.What a coward I am.Then, she drew a needle from her bag, threaded it, and sutured the Y-shaped opening she’d cut into Scott’s cadaver.
Twenty minutes later, a pale but collected Tennant asked, “Have you any reason to doubt strychnine poisoning?”
“No. That twisted jaw is a telltale, and the body shows signs of asphyxia. There is no other obvious cause of death, although we’ll wait for the analysis of the whiskey and stomach contents to be sure.”
