Eleanor thought for a moment. ‘So how did our poisoner get hold of the poison? Steal heart pills?’
‘Possibly, but not necessarily. As I said, digitalis is actually easily obtained from the common purple foxglove. One can simply use the dried, powdered leaves, or berries, for instance, and dissolve it in any liquid with a reasonable taste of its own to disguise it.’
Eleanor digested this piece of information. Her mind flashed back again to Canning lying in the mud and snow. ‘So how long would it take to kill a man?’
Clifford pursed his lips. ‘It would depend on a number of factors that we do not know, such as how much was administered. At a guess, around ten to twenty minutes before any severe symptoms would start to show themselves. And, if the dose was high enough, which in the case of Mr Canning it was, maybe another ten to fifteen to prove fatal.’
Eleanor tapped the pen on her chin. ‘Well, Canning was still alive – just – when we reached him… and the race was roughly how long, Clifford?’
‘It started at two fifteen. As I was checking his pulse using my wristwatch when he expired, I can accurately place the time of his death at two thirty-seven.’
‘Twenty-two minutes after the race started. Which suggests he must have taken the poison no more than fifteen to twenty minutes or so before the start of the race.’
‘And, my lady, if you look at the day’s programme, one of which is on the table there, we can find out roughly what Mr Canning may have been doing.’
Eleanor ran her finger down the items on the agenda, silently giving thanks for employing such a detail-orientated butler. ‘Ah! If you wanted to compete in the race, you would have had to queue up for your number from about quarter to two. That’s thirty minutes before it started. Does that sound a reasonable starting point?’
Clifford nodded slowly. ‘There are a great many variables we do not know, but it is the best we have, and perhaps good enough for the moment.’
Eleanor went back to her notebook and wrote under Canning’s name:
1.45 p.m. – Canning queues up to collect race number.
2.15 p.m. – Race started by the reverend.
2.37 p.m. – Canning dies.
She tapped the pen on her chin again. ‘Now, if only we knew what he did next.’
Clifford coughed. ‘When Mr Canning died, I observed he was not wearing the same clothes as when he arrived at the Hall.’
‘Of course! He changed into more suitable racing clothes, like a lot of the runners who came in their Sunday best. So he’d have gone to the changing room we provided.’
She added:
1.55 p.m.? – Changed into race clothes.
‘And after that? Ah! I can answer that one.’ She wrote down:
2.05 p.m. – 2.10 p.m. – Queues to get Mrs Trotman’s Christmas mead and log.
Clifford looked over her shoulder. ‘So that only leaves a few minutes for Mr Canning to leave the refreshment room and walk over to the start point. We can therefore assume that he must have been poisoned sometime between the registration and the commencement of the race.’
‘Top-notch deduction, Clifford! So let’s retrace Canning’s movements and find out who he was in contact with before the race started. Someone must have slipped the poison into… into what, Clifford? His drink? Or food?’
‘Possibly either, my lady. Most likely whatever he was drinking as it would be easier to slip the powdered leaves, or berries, into a drink than into food.’
She nodded. ‘Makes sense. The killer must believe he’s got away with it at the moment, so we need to ask questions without arousing any suspicion. Most people don’t even know Canning is dead, and we want to keep it that way so everyone can carry on enjoying themselves.’
Clifford nodded. ‘Unfortunately that shouldn’t be too difficult as I doubt many of the villagers will miss Mr Canning or feel the urge to seek him out.’
Eleanor nudged Gladstone off her legs and stood up. ‘Sorry, old friend. Right, let’s go investigate the murder of a man who isn’t even officially dead yet.’
Nine
Eleanor beckoned to Clifford as he chivvied Gladstone through the door and closed it behind him. ‘We need to start by finding out who gave out the race numbers and if they saw anything.’
‘I believe the ladies are over there, my lady.’ Clifford pointed to elderly twins in identical frilled blouses and ankle-length pleated skirts enthusiastically whirling their partners around the phonograph table to Tchaikovsky’s ‘Christmas Waltz’.
Eleanor smiled. ‘Ah, bad timing. They are having a wonderful time.’
As the couples whirled in their direction, the corners of Clifford’s lips twitched. ‘Although I believe the gentlemen would appreciate an excuse to leave the dance floor.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘I see what you mean, they do look a little puffed.’ She scooped up four glasses from the drinks table behind her and approached the dancers.
‘Breathtakingly graceful, ladies and gentlemen.’ Eleanor held out the glasses. ‘You’ve definitely earned this. You really have put on quite the spectacle.’
Clifford nodded at the men. ‘Gentlemen, perhaps when you have regained your breath, you might like to join the yule log gathering party? We’re still a few volunteers short.’
The two men nodded, took their glasses and hurriedly made their escape.
Eleanor gestured to a row of unoccupied seats by the floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘Ladies, have you a moment? I haven’t had the chance to thank you properly for your efficient organisation in registering the runners.’ She steered them towards the chairs by holding onto their drinks.
Helpfully, the twins had indeed seen something: Canning arguing with an unruly looking man with an unruly looking beard. Unhelpfully, they had no idea who the man was, and hadn’t seen him in the ballroom or elsewhere since.
Unruly and bearded? Could it be the same man who knocked Canning over just before he died, Ellie?
Having thanked the twins for their help once again, Eleanor and Clifford were stopped as they left the ballroom by a gaggle of young girls. The group pushed the tallest one forward, who hesitated, and then spoke up. ‘We’ve made you all a newspaper Christmas hat.’
‘How delightful.’ Eleanor accepted hers and turned it over in her hands. It was decorated with feathers, holly and buttons in beautiful swirls and had been enthusiastically painted. ‘I appear to have a very fine creation here. A wonderfully painted scene of… a woman in… in a lovely house?’
A rosy-cheeked girl in a pinafore pulled on her dress. ‘It’s a princess in a castle, like you.’
‘Oh golly.’ Eleanor blushed.
The girls all turned and stared at Clifford, who dutifully set the one handed to him on his head.
‘Lovely ribbons, Clifford.’ Eleanor stifled a chuckle at the sight of her usually impossibly stiff butler regaled in a homemade paper hat liberally threaded with ribbons all tied in voluminous bows.
He bowed. ‘Thank you, ladies.’
The girls skipped off, giggling excitedly.