A wave of exhaustion overtook her as she watched the fun and games still underway. The strain of playing the perfect hostess amid the tragedy of a man dying mid-festivities had drained the last of her energy. She rubbed her hands over her cheeks, trying to conjure up some extra stamina.
‘Might I suggest, my lady, that Master Gladstone would greatly benefit from fifteen minutes resting on the chaise longue with you? Perhaps over a reviving pot of coffee and a slice of something sweet and sticky?’
She laughed. ‘He’ll get in an awful mess, won’t he? But yes, I’d love that. For Gladstone’s sake, of course.’
‘Of course, my lady. And at the same time we could make a plan of attack?’
She nodded, and they quietly left.
With the door of the snug closed, Gladstone nuzzled into her legs, and the smell of coffee and warm gingerbread wafting around the room, Eleanor was already feeling better. She bit the arm off a gingerbread Father Christmas and let the sweetness dissolve on her tongue.
‘I confess, I’m more disappointed about the inspector’s insistence that there is no suggestion of foul play over Canning’s death than I had realised.’
Clifford cleared his throat. ‘One’s opinion becomes quite the barbed thorn when it is refuted by someone whose respect we desire.’
‘Perceptive, as always. It was horribly awkward with him out there in the garage. It seems he hasn’t… you know.’
‘Ah, the inspector is still torn between following protocol and following his heart, perhaps?’
‘Well, protocol won.’ She sighed. ‘Oh dash it, Clifford! It’s Christmas and we’re tangled in another mess. I wanted you and the ladies to have such an easy time once today’s lunch is over. You all work so hard all year.’
‘Thank you, my lady. But I am mindful that you’ve had more than your fair share of death in the last twelve months.’
‘As you have too. And it’s no good doing the stiff upper lip thing, you thought the world of Uncle Byron. I’m sure after living and working with such an eccentric character, you believed my coming to stay at the Hall would make for a horribly routine time.’
‘Were it able to respond, the routine of the Hall might not agree, my lady.’
This made her laugh. ‘I really am doing my best not to mess up the order you’ve created here, but I’m just rather used to it being only me to account for. For a while too long, if I’m honest.’ She held up her coffee cup. ‘Are you aware of a superstition that says you mustn’t propose a toast over coffee instead of champagne?’
‘I have never encountered one, my lady.’
‘Then a toast. To justice for Canning, and Uncle Byron.’
Clifford clinked his cup against hers. ‘To justice. And finding the truth.’ He held her gaze. ‘Wherever it is hiding.’
She put her cup on the saucer and pushed Gladstone’s heavy head gently off her back where it had slid down. Clifford handed her a notebook and the gold fountain pen her uncle had given him. She opened the book at a fresh page and wrote the name Conrad Canning at the top. Then she drew a key next to it. A frown crossed her face.
‘We are assuming two key things here, no pun intended.’
Clifford raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. ‘The first thing we are assuming is that the key we found belonged to Canning. Any of the runners could have dropped it.’
Clifford nodded. ‘True, my lady. However, if it had been dropped by one of the earlier runners, it would almost certainly have been trodden into the mud and would not have stuck to your hand warmer. This suggests that the key was resting in the freshly laid snow and the snow had no chance to settle on the course until the majority of runners had passed.’
‘Okay, we’ll assume it belongs to Canning until proven otherwise. The second thing we’re assuming is that the poison was administered before the race.’
Clifford nodded again. ‘True once more, my lady. However, administering a poison during would have been very difficult. The fun run is too short for anyone to need drink or sustenance while taking part, so I doubt if Mr Canning was given poisoned drink, or food, during the race. The only other method that comes to mind is the poisoner might have used a syringe and plunged it into one of Mr Canning’s veins as they ran. However, there were too many spectators and other runners along the route to imagine no one would have noticed. And it would have been fiendishly tricky to execute successfully on the go, as it were.’
Eleanor bit the head off a gingerbread man and felt a jolt of horror as she pictured Canning lying dead in the snow. Pull yourself together, Ellie, it’s just a gingerbread man! ‘Okay, we’ll assume that the poison was administered sometime before the race, but not later than… than when?’
Clifford cleared his throat. ‘If I am correct and Mr Canning was poisoned in the same manner as his lordship – and his symptoms were similar – then the poison used was digitalis. It could have been something else, but digitalis is easy to obtain being the main constituent in many heart pills. It has a very interesting history. In 1775 the Scottish doctor William Withering had a patient come to him with a heart condition he considered incurable. On being told this, the patient, being a somewhat strong-minded individual, told the good doctor to go to the devil. He then left, insisting if the doctor wouldn’t help him he’d find a gypsy who would. Naturally, Doctor Withering believed that would be the last he’d see of this, in his view, terminally ill man. However, the patient strode back into the doctor’s surgery some months later, seemingly fully cured.’
Eleanor gasped. ‘That’s amazing! How?’
‘The gentleman had indeed gone to a local gypsy who had given him a “magical potion”. So amazed was Doctor Withering, that he spent the following months himself scouring the highways and byways of his home county of Shropshire to try and hunt down this elusive gypsy.’
‘And did he?’
‘After much searching he did locate the woman. And after much haggling he persuaded her to part with the secret recipe, the key ingredient of which was digitalis, a substance obtained from local foxgloves.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘So it seems that there is sometimes truth behind some of these old wives’ tales and handed-down wisdom.’
‘Absolutely, my lady. Doctor Withering treated over a hundred patients soon after his discovery, many with remarkable results.’
‘So this digitalis, it comes from foxgloves? And it’s safe in the correct dose, but can be fatal in larger doses?’
‘Exactly. Which is why many poisoners have favoured it over the years. If the victim is already taking heart pills, as his lordship was, an overdose looks much like a heart attack and may be signed off by the victim’s doctor as such.’
‘Which is exactly what Canning’s doctor is probably going to do, unless the inspector keeps his word and asks the coroner to do a post-mortem.’
‘Indeed. However, even if a post-mortem is carried out, it merely reveals a dangerous level of digitalis present in the victim’s system. This is then, as in his lordship’s case, put down to the victim accidentally taking a double dose of his medicine. And if the post-mortem is not performed soon after the poisoning, as may be the case with Mr Canning, the levels of digitalis in the system will inevitably fall.’