“He and this cat have a lot in common,” Donald remarked, licking his fingers, his chin glistening with lamb grease. “Quite the pair of opportunists.”
“You should talk,” Ian muttered, and instantly regretted it.
Donald put down his lamb chop. “If you want me to leave, why not just say so? May I remind you that it was you who invited me to stay.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I know I showed up out of the blue, but you took me in. You shouldn’t punish me for accepting your offer.”
“Quite right—you would have done the same for me.”
“It’s not so easy, you know, being in school again after all these years.”
“I heard you cursing about organic chemistry when you came in.”
“I suppose they know what they’re doing, but it seems odd having to study some of these subjects. Hard to see what they have to do with being a doctor.”
Donald lit a cigarette, with a quick glance at Ian, who disapproved of smoking. Ian ignored it but saw an opening.
“I wonder if you would do me a favor.”
“How could I refuse?”
“Crawford’s wife isn’t well—”
“What’s the matter?”
“It seems to be digestive.”
“Her name’s Moira, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“I met them both years ago, when Father—before the fire.”
“Where was I?”
“Probably out mucking around with your delinquent rugby friends, or at a wrestling match—God knows. It was exhausting just to watch you. I used to wonder which one of us was adopted.”
“Clearly you were. Father was athletic, like me.”
“Fat lot of good it did him.”
Once again, Ian could feel them teeter on the brink of the subject, then back away. He breathed a sigh of relief when his brother heaved himself to his feet and set his plate on the mantel. Bacchus followed, purring.
“You can give him the lamb bones,” Ian said.
“Keep his teeth sharp for murdering mice, eh?” Donald replied, tossing a bone on the hearth. The cat crouched over it, purring even louder. “He certainly likes his food. Maybe I should take him with me when I leave.”
“Please, no more of such talk. Stay as long as you like.”
Donald stretched and yawned. “I’d better turn in soon. But first I want some pudding and a strong cup of tea to help digest all that lamb.”
“By the way, are you familiar with the signs of arsenic poisoning?”
“Some of them.”
“Have you come across fingernail striation?”
“That can be a sign of several disorders, depending on the nature of the marks. Are they horizontal or vertical?”
“White horizontal stripes.”
“That would likely indicate the presence of a toxin. Arsenic is a good possibility.”
“But not the only one?”
“No, though I couldn’t give you a complete list. Why?”
Ian told him about the curious appearance of Sophia Jex-Blake and his subsequent trip to the morgue.
“Extraordinary woman,” Donald murmured.
“You’ve heard of her, then?”
“Certainly—though her reputation around the medical school is not entirely untarnished. Doctors are by nature conservative, and academics even more so. You can imagine their reaction to her attempt to upset that particular apple cart.”
“Do you think her accusation credible in this case?”
“It depends upon the toxicology report.”
“Assuming it’s positive for arsenic—”
“I’d say you have a poisoner on your hands. Now then, how about some pudding? I believe I saw a mince pie in the pantry.”
Ian shook his head. “Does nothing disturb your appetite?”
Donald patted his considerable belly. “As Lillian would say, are ye struck blind, man?”
“I suppose a strong stomach is a useful attribute for a doctor.”
“To compensate for my less than useful ones.”
“Do you still have a photographic memory?”
“Yes, assuming years of overindulgence haven’t destroyed it. Now, how about some of that pie?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Ian dragged himself into the station at half past nine. Crawford was not at his desk, but Dickerson was waiting for him, his blue eyes bright as the copper buttons on his uniform.
“Lab results came back, sir.”
“Read it to me, Sergeant,” Ian replied, pouring a strong cup of tea to soothe his throbbing head.
“‘Marsh and Reinsch tests both confirm large amounts of arsenic in victim’s system. Cause of Death: Arsenic Poisoning. Manner of Death: Undetermined.’” Dickerson frowned. “How can it be undetermined, sir? Don’t poisoning mean he were murdered?”
“Not unless we can prove it.”
“That lady what came in yesterday—”
“Dr. Jex-Blake.”
“She seems pretty well convinced he were murdered.”
“It’s possible the fatal dose was taken accidentally.”
“Isn’t that unlikely, sir?”
Ian sat at his desk and pushed the gathering mound of paperwork to the side. “Do you recall the Bradford sweets poisoning in England? Twenty people died from eating candy accidentally laced with arsenic.”
“Yes, but that were before the passage of the Pharmacy Act, weren’t it?”
“Good on ye, Sergeant,” Ian said. “How did you know that?”
“My dad were a pharmacist, an’ he used to grumble ’bout havin’ to keep a poison register. Still, he knew it were a good thing in the long run.”
“Then you also know arsenic is present in many common household compounds. For example, it is the main ingredient in rat poison.”
“But who swallows rat poison on purpose, like?”
“That’s what I mean to find out. Come along—we have a call to make.”
“Where we goin’, sir?” Dickerson asked, fetching his coat and hat.
“To pay a visit to Dr. Henry Littlejohn.”
In addition to his post as police surgeon, Henry Duncan Littlejohn taught at the university. According to Donald, he lectured from eleven until one on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Ian pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was nearly ten.
“We’d best be quick about it,” he urged Dickerson as they descended the stairs to the street. “If we don’t catch him before he goes into the lecture hall, we shall have a long wait.”
The police station was located in the middle of the busy High Street, so it wasn’t difficult finding a cab. Within minutes they were rumbling over South Bridge. Dr. Littlejohn’s office was snuggled into a turret overlooking Drummond Street.
“Is he expectin’ us, sir?” Dickerson asked nervously as they ascended the winding steps to the third floor.
“No, but I hope he will see us nonetheless,” Ian replied, though his confidence was growing as narrow as the twisting staircase.
A knock upon the door brought a mumbled reply. Ian pushed the door open slowly. Seated behind a broad, cluttered desk was a powerfully built man of about sixty with pale, sunken eyes and a curved beak of a nose set over a thin, determined mouth. His abundant silver hair was parted in the middle and slicked back, emphasizing his prominent cheekbones.