Death in Ecstasy by Ngaio Marsh

gentleman returned, “has the lady been looked at?”
    “Mrs. Beken went through her bag and pockets,” replied Fox.
    “And what was the trophy you waved at me just now?”
    “Bailey found something up in the chancel. It was simply lying on the floor. It had been ground into the carpet by somebody’s heel. We thought it was the article you wanted.”
    “I hope it is. Let’s see it.”
    “It wasn’t the same bit I showed you,” explained Fox. “That was just, as you might say, a hint. There’s the original.”
    He produced a small box. Nigel drew near. Alleyn opened the box and discovered a tiny piece of very grubby reddish paper. It had been pressed flat and was creased by a heavy indentation.
    “M’m.” grunted Alleyn, “wait a bit.”
    He went to his bag and got a pair of tweezers. Then he carried the paper in the box to one of the side lights and looked closely at it. He lifted it a little with the tweezers, holding it over the box. He smelt it.
    “That’s it, sure enough,” he said. “Look — it’s an envelope. A cigarette-paper gummed double. By Jove, Fox, he took a risk. It’d need a bit of sleight-of-hand.” He touched it very delicately with the tip of his fingers.
    “Wet!” said Alleyn. “So that’s how it was done.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Nigel. “It’s red. Is it drenched in somebody’s life-blood? Why must you be so tiresomely enigmatic?”
    “Nobody’s being enigmatic. I’m telling you, as Mr. Ogden would say. Here’s a bit of cigarette-paper. It’s been doubled over and gummed into a tiny tube. One end has been folded over several times making the tube into an envelope. It has been dyed — I
think
with red ink. It’s wet. It smells. It’s a clue, damn your eyes, it’s a clue.”
    “It will have to be analysed, won’t it, sir?” asked Fox.
    “Oh, rather, yes. This is the real stuff. ‘The Case of the Folded Paper.’ ‘Inspector Fox sees red.’ ”
    “But, Alleyn,” complained Nigel, “if it’s wet do you mean it’s only recently been dipped in red ink? Oh — wait a bit. Wait a bit.”
    “Watch our little bud unfolding,” said Alleyn.
    “It’s wet with wine,” cried Nigel triumphantly.
    “Mr. Bathgate, I do believe you must be right.”
    “Facetious ass!”
    “Sorry. Yes, it floated upon the wine when it was red. Bailey!”
    “Hullo, sir?”
    “Show us just where you found this. You’ve done very well.” A faint trace of mulish satisfaction appeared on Detective-Sergeant Bailey’s face. He crossed over to the chancel steps, stooped, and pointed to a six-penny piece.
    “I left that to mark the place,” he said.
    “And it is precisely over the spot where the cup lay. There’s my chalk mark. That settles it.”
    “Do you mean,” asked Nigel, “that the murderer dropped the paper into the cup?”
    “Just that.”
    “Purposely?”
    “I think so. See here, Bathgate. Suppose one of the Initiates had a pinch of cyanide in this little envelope. He — or she — has it concealed about his or her person. In a cigarette-case, perhaps, or an empty lipstick holder. Just before he goes up with the others he takes it out and holds it right end up — wait a moment — like this perhaps.”
    “No,” said Nigel, “like this.” He folded his hands like those of a saint in a medieval drawing. “I notice they all did that.”
    “Excellent. The flat open end would be slipped between two fingers, and the thing would be held snug. When he — call it he for the moment — takes the cup, he manages to let the little envelope fall in. Not so difficult as it sounds. We’ll experiment later. The paper floats. The folded end uppermost, the open end down. The powder falls out.”
    “But,” objected Fox, “he’s running a big risk, sir. Suppose somebody notices the paper floating about on the top of the wine. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Miss Jenkins or Mr. Ogden say they saw it, and Mr. Pringle and the rest don’t mention it — well,