Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard Page B

and direct, without the “ifs” and “on the other hands.” Nicotine poison. An unusual method, but easy enough to obtain, if you knew the way. It always terrified Meredith, in fact, to think how very easy poison was to obtain, if you knew the way. Luckily very few people did, or there would probably be far more murders which were cheerfully accepted as death from natural causes.
    Meredith slipped out into the hall, and stopped to speak to Sergeant Trapp, massive and rural, who was stationed there to coordinate the work of the detective-constables in the various parts of the house. Trapp was being watched beadily by Cuff, who seemed to regard sergeants as a sadly deteriorated race of men.
    â€œWe have a case, Jim. It was nicotine in the decanter. I want your boys to get hold of the clothes everyone wore that night, and put the forensic chappies on to them. Oh, and you’d better send over and get them from the Woodstocks too, and all the servants. Anyone who would have had a chance to go into the study that night.”
    â€œBig job, sir.”
    â€œWhat are the labs for, if not for jobs like that?” Idwal Meredith’s voice had the slightest note of contempt in it. As he spoke he saw Surtees emerge from the dining room with a tray full of dessert plates in his hands. He put the tray on a side table, and closed the door quietly. Then he went through into the servants’ quarters.
    â€œTell me, Jim,” said Meredith softly, “what’s your opinion of that gentleman?”
    Sergeant Trapp surreptitiously drew his hand from behind his back, and with his fingers and thumb illustrated the notion of a duck, quacking.
    â€œThat was rather my impression,” said Meredith. “I think Surtees is my man at the moment.”
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    Lunch was not an easy meal for any of the three who took it. Mark and his mother tried to keep the conversation on neutral topics, but after a death and a will, there suddenly seemed to be no neutral topics left in the world. They discussed the funeral, but could come to no firm decisions in view of the uncertainties caused by the police. They broached the possibility of a memorial service, but (without their saying so) it occurred to both of them that it would turn into a gathering of people Oliver Fairleigh had insulted, congratulating themselves on having the last laugh.
    Mark drank, with lunch, one and a half glasses of white wine—less, in fact, than Terence. There was a palpable effort involved, but he won a clear victory over his inclinations, and by the end of the meal seemed to be in a mood of some serenity. His mother felt that, on this score at least, her heart should have been light, but in fact her feelings were mixed: what would the police think about a young man whose alibi for his father’s death was that he was drunk, who was—to all appearances—a confirmed alcoholic, yet who underwent a miraculous cure the moment his father died? Over and over Eleanor Fairleigh found her mind returning to the question: what will the police think? Which wasodd, for she had so far admitted to no one that her husband’s death could conceivably be a case of murder.
    Terence’s mind was on other things. He sat slumped through the meal, hardly bothering even to toy with his food, the picture of romantic melancholy. When he spoke it turned out that (like so many romantics) he had been thinking of himself and money.
    â€œFoul Play at the Crossroads,” he said abruptly, “which one is that?”
    â€œIt’s about witchcraft,” said Mark. “I remember it coming out, because the money paid for my twenty-first party. It was very popular—witchcraft always goes down well.”
    â€œYes, it’s odd, isn’t it?” said Eleanor brightly. “Witchcraft and royalty, they’re always popular. Whereas some of the ones that Oliver really liked himself never caught on in the