adjoining bathroom, carrying a candle with him.
He opened the door of the medicine cabinet. The usual things were there: Henry’s electric razor and shaving lotions, a bottle of aspirin, a cough syrup, which he sampled delicately with his tongue, a jar of baking soda, another of boric acid, which he also tasted. There was also a bottle of the sedatives he had prescribed for Laura last summer. Five of the thirty capsules remained. His skillful physician’s fingers opened the capsules; he touched the contents of each with the tip of his tongue. Pure barbiturates. He put the capsules together again. There was, of course, no arsenic in the cabinet. He had not really expected to find any. He looked in the wastebaskets in the bathroom and in the bedroom, knowing it was useless. He carried the candle back to the table and put it down, and sat again in the big wing chair, thinking.
He had fallen asleep just as the sun rose, during a lull in the storm. He awoke suddenly, to find the room bright and Laura, awake, staring at him with wide eyes.
“David?” Her voice was weak.
“No one else,” he said, yawning. “How do you feel?”
“Awful. Weak. Where’s Henry?”
“Don’t be frightened,” he said in the professional voice which always soothed his patients. “I sent him to another bedroom in this mausoleum to get a little sleep. Laura, I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Did you eat anything or drink anything, anything at all, before going downstairs to dinner last night?”
“No.” Her voice seemed a little stronger. “Not a thing. You gave me a drink, David. Was there something wrong with it?”
“There might have been,” he answered evasively. “Something poisoned you.”
“Poison — ?” David hardly heard her whisper the word.
“Ptomaine, probably,” he said. “A bad thing. It can kill, sometimes. Or am I thinking of botulism?” He yawned again, elaborately. “You didn’t have anything at dinner except what we had? No different wine? No separate side dish?”
“Nothing. Is anyone else sick?” she asked in alarm.
“I wouldn’t say anyone in this house is feeling exactly on top of the world this morning. Now, poisoned — food — doesn’t always have a revealing smell or taste. In fact, the deadliest poison can’t be detected that way at all. However, some people can take as much of one — poison — as another, and they might get a little queasy or have no reaction at all, and someone else, more susceptible, could die of it. It was probably that way with you.”
She nodded her head against the pillow. “I did think the water had a funny taste. You know how it tastes in New York and other places. Chlorine?”
“But you have your own well water, don’t you, Laura?”
“Yes. Artesian. Sometimes it does taste — off, you know.”
“But you don’t use chlorine in the water here, do you?”
“No.”
“And you tasted chlorine last night?”
“No.” She frowned, trying to remember. “It was a distinctly different taste. Like metal, I think. I’d slept in the afternoon, and somehow I’m always desperately thirsty when I wake up. So I drank the water the first thing at the table, and then Edith refilled the glass when she came in with the soup.”
“Like metal? Did the second glass taste the same?”
“It left a very unpleasant aftertaste,” Laura told him tiredly. “That’s why I drank another glass as soon as Edith brought it. The second glass was better.”
“Did your stomach bother you after dinner?”
“Yes.” Her voice was faintly uneasy. “I thought once, while I was reading, that I was going to be sick; I felt a little nauseated and very sleepy. But that was because of the sedative Henry gave me earlier. It was half a capsule of what you gave me, yourself, last summer.”
David nodded seriously. “You didn’t notice any particular symptoms after he gave you that half capsule?”
“No, just after I drank the water.”
“Did the water look clear to
He opened the door of the medicine cabinet. The usual things were there: Henry’s electric razor and shaving lotions, a bottle of aspirin, a cough syrup, which he sampled delicately with his tongue, a jar of baking soda, another of boric acid, which he also tasted. There was also a bottle of the sedatives he had prescribed for Laura last summer. Five of the thirty capsules remained. His skillful physician’s fingers opened the capsules; he touched the contents of each with the tip of his tongue. Pure barbiturates. He put the capsules together again. There was, of course, no arsenic in the cabinet. He had not really expected to find any. He looked in the wastebaskets in the bathroom and in the bedroom, knowing it was useless. He carried the candle back to the table and put it down, and sat again in the big wing chair, thinking.
He had fallen asleep just as the sun rose, during a lull in the storm. He awoke suddenly, to find the room bright and Laura, awake, staring at him with wide eyes.
“David?” Her voice was weak.
“No one else,” he said, yawning. “How do you feel?”
“Awful. Weak. Where’s Henry?”
“Don’t be frightened,” he said in the professional voice which always soothed his patients. “I sent him to another bedroom in this mausoleum to get a little sleep. Laura, I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Did you eat anything or drink anything, anything at all, before going downstairs to dinner last night?”
“No.” Her voice seemed a little stronger. “Not a thing. You gave me a drink, David. Was there something wrong with it?”
“There might have been,” he answered evasively. “Something poisoned you.”
“Poison — ?” David hardly heard her whisper the word.
“Ptomaine, probably,” he said. “A bad thing. It can kill, sometimes. Or am I thinking of botulism?” He yawned again, elaborately. “You didn’t have anything at dinner except what we had? No different wine? No separate side dish?”
“Nothing. Is anyone else sick?” she asked in alarm.
“I wouldn’t say anyone in this house is feeling exactly on top of the world this morning. Now, poisoned — food — doesn’t always have a revealing smell or taste. In fact, the deadliest poison can’t be detected that way at all. However, some people can take as much of one — poison — as another, and they might get a little queasy or have no reaction at all, and someone else, more susceptible, could die of it. It was probably that way with you.”
She nodded her head against the pillow. “I did think the water had a funny taste. You know how it tastes in New York and other places. Chlorine?”
“But you have your own well water, don’t you, Laura?”
“Yes. Artesian. Sometimes it does taste — off, you know.”
“But you don’t use chlorine in the water here, do you?”
“No.”
“And you tasted chlorine last night?”
“No.” She frowned, trying to remember. “It was a distinctly different taste. Like metal, I think. I’d slept in the afternoon, and somehow I’m always desperately thirsty when I wake up. So I drank the water the first thing at the table, and then Edith refilled the glass when she came in with the soup.”
“Like metal? Did the second glass taste the same?”
“It left a very unpleasant aftertaste,” Laura told him tiredly. “That’s why I drank another glass as soon as Edith brought it. The second glass was better.”
“Did your stomach bother you after dinner?”
“Yes.” Her voice was faintly uneasy. “I thought once, while I was reading, that I was going to be sick; I felt a little nauseated and very sleepy. But that was because of the sedative Henry gave me earlier. It was half a capsule of what you gave me, yourself, last summer.”
David nodded seriously. “You didn’t notice any particular symptoms after he gave you that half capsule?”
“No, just after I drank the water.”
“Did the water look clear to
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