An Appetite for Murder by Linda Stratmann Page A

others, but disdained to take that good advice himself. He was followed almost at once by Mr Lathwal, a slender and very young man of Indian extraction, who, as he had already advised Frances in his letter, was lodging in Bayswater while studying the law. The two were understandably astonished to see each other.
    ‘There must be some error!’ exclaimed Dr Adair in a voice altogether too loud for the small parlour. ‘I had not expected to see Mr Lathwal here, especially in view of our dispute!’
    ‘I too am somewhat mystified,’ Mr Lathwal admitted.
    ‘There is no error,’ Frances assured them. ‘Please be seated gentlemen, we are awaiting a third party.’
    Adair was lowering himself into a chair with very ill-grace when Frances’ words made him leap to his feet. ‘That wouldn’t be that dangerous lunatic Rustrum, would it?’ he said. ‘If so, I shall depart at once!’
    ‘It is Mr Rustrum, and you may do as you please,’ said Frances, coolly.
    ‘The impudence!’ boomed Adair.
    Frances remained uncowed. ‘Please moderate your voice, sir, there are ladies of a nervous disposition in the house and I do not wish them to be disturbed.’
    At that moment Mr Rustrum arrived, a tall, spare gentleman with a lively gait. Contrary to the popular prejudice that those who restrained themselves from excess at the dinner table must therefore be unhappy individuals, he was abundantly cheerful in demeanour, indeed his smile seemed to be permanently fixed to his face. His initial letter to Frances, in which he advised her that he was an architect by profession although retired for many years, had made a great point of stating his age, which was seventy-four, and on meeting him she could see why he chose to mention it, since he looked about twenty years younger, and clearly knew it. His present occupation was writing books and pamphlets about the Pure Food diet and promoting them by travelling about the country and lecturing on the subject to anyone willing to listen, and most probably to a great many more who were not. ‘How extraordinary!’ he said, with an expression of great pleasure, on seeing the other two gentlemen. ‘That is very clever of you Miss Doughty. At last we might get something done.’ He sat down. The other two men, Dr Adair with a scowl and Mr Lathwal with a bland expression, did the same.
    ‘Now gentlemen,’ Frances began, ‘I have called you all together not because of your differences, which I realise are substantial, but because you are all concerned in the same question: the identity and activities of the person calling him or herself “Sanitas”. This, I must warn you, is not the time or the place to argue about diet. I have read many books on the subject and find that there are hardly any principles on which all are agreed, apart from the fact that excess corpulence may in some cases be deleterious to health. As to how it comes about and how it may be cured there are as many opinions as there are authors. So, we will leave that aside for today. Do you agree?’
    They all looked surprised and not a little disappointed, but they agreed.
    ‘Your letters conveniently supplied me with examples of your handwriting, and when I visited the offices of the Bayswater Chronicle I was able to compare them with the letters written during the correspondence that followed the death of Mr Thomas Whibley. I observed that all three of you wrote to the Chronicle under your own names, none of you wrote under the name Bainiardus, and neither is any one of you Sanitas.’
    The men glanced at each other. ‘But it is possible,’ said Adair, ‘that this Sanitas fellow, being a conniving underhand type, might have disguised his hand.’
    ‘I have given that some consideration,’ said Frances, ‘but the Sanitas correspondence is written with an ease that does not suggest disguise, and is consistent in form, though not speed, throughout the letter. I am inclined to believe that it is that person’s natural