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Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
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Luckily for us we can, as you may have noticed. That is, if “lucky” is an appropriate description for what happened to poor Dougie,’ he adds.
‘But it makes no sense,’ I protest. ‘Obviously I don’t have any of this stuff. I caught all my mice using ordinary mousetraps and cheese. So where did the poison come from? It might have been in any other part of the food last night. I don’t see why everyone immediately suspects me and treats me like someone in an Agatha Christie novel.’
‘Think “probabilities”,’ says Adrian. ‘The entire meal, apart from your contribution, was perfectly standard fare. Yours was most definitely not. I can’t speak for the rest of us, but personally I’m finding the time-honoured way of trying to pinpoint exactly what gave me food poisoning isn’t working in this case. All the starters seem nauseating in retrospect.’
This is deeply wounding. ‘Others, including yourself, were full of praise at the time,’ I point out with some asperity. ‘I seem to remember you called my little hors d’oeuvres “ inventively sublime”.’
‘That was before I knew they were lethal. Also before I’d tasted the liver smoothie. God, no . I don’t even want to think about that.’
Here, Max shambles in with a couple of policemen and shambles out again to go to bed. The great maestro appears to have aged overnight. He complains of feeling too weak to go into a recording session, which he has had to cancel. That will cost somebody something. The policemen politely but firmly refuse my offer of coffee, no doubt thinking it will be laced with arsenic or strychnine, and things quickly become veryboring indeed. Their ponderous opening sally sets the tone. ‘Obviously, the death of Sir Douglas Monteith has made this a very tragic affair, sir. There is not the slightest suspicion of anything other than a terrible accident, but you will understand why we need to ask you a few questions, sir, as the person who prepared the food but who alone was unaffected by the poison.’ And much in the same vein, with undercurrents of forensic menace. Oh, what am I doing in this benighted land? Why am I not still up in the blissful seclusion of Le Roccie? And why is my house there not still standing? What malign fate has had all this in store for me?
So I go over it yet again and show the policemen the outhouses where I set the traps. I describe how I made all three starters, concealing only the exact quantities from them. One doesn’t give priceless recipes away to the police, especially not to men philistine enough to express incredulity when I describe the dishes. Suddenly, I’m very relieved that in the general excitement of my financial windfall I clean forgot to mention my inauspicious first meeting with the Baronet. I had intended to tell Adrian about my encounter in Monteith’s jungle , but by the time he arrived with Josh’s microscope there were more pressing things to think about. Now I realise how important it is that the police never find out that Sir Douglas and I exchanged tense words some days ago, even if the addled old buffer appeared not to recognise me last night. Certainly I don’t wish to give the police the least impression that as far as I’m concerned, the Bart.’s demise is one of those human tragedies that make one’s sides ache. Now, in the course of our explorations, we come across the potting shed where the Christs’ gardener – whom Jennifer describes as ‘a treasure’ – has his lair. Here the policemen poke about and become excited over an ancient bottle with a corroded cap on a shelf. The label reads ‘Squillo-Death’ and has a faded picture on it of a rat in terminal agony. Using plastic gloves they drop the bottle into an evidence bag.
‘And you say you’ve never seen this bottle before, sir?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I’ve never even been into this potting shed. The kitchen garden is not somewhere I visit frequently.’
At last they go away
‘But it makes no sense,’ I protest. ‘Obviously I don’t have any of this stuff. I caught all my mice using ordinary mousetraps and cheese. So where did the poison come from? It might have been in any other part of the food last night. I don’t see why everyone immediately suspects me and treats me like someone in an Agatha Christie novel.’
‘Think “probabilities”,’ says Adrian. ‘The entire meal, apart from your contribution, was perfectly standard fare. Yours was most definitely not. I can’t speak for the rest of us, but personally I’m finding the time-honoured way of trying to pinpoint exactly what gave me food poisoning isn’t working in this case. All the starters seem nauseating in retrospect.’
This is deeply wounding. ‘Others, including yourself, were full of praise at the time,’ I point out with some asperity. ‘I seem to remember you called my little hors d’oeuvres “ inventively sublime”.’
‘That was before I knew they were lethal. Also before I’d tasted the liver smoothie. God, no . I don’t even want to think about that.’
Here, Max shambles in with a couple of policemen and shambles out again to go to bed. The great maestro appears to have aged overnight. He complains of feeling too weak to go into a recording session, which he has had to cancel. That will cost somebody something. The policemen politely but firmly refuse my offer of coffee, no doubt thinking it will be laced with arsenic or strychnine, and things quickly become veryboring indeed. Their ponderous opening sally sets the tone. ‘Obviously, the death of Sir Douglas Monteith has made this a very tragic affair, sir. There is not the slightest suspicion of anything other than a terrible accident, but you will understand why we need to ask you a few questions, sir, as the person who prepared the food but who alone was unaffected by the poison.’ And much in the same vein, with undercurrents of forensic menace. Oh, what am I doing in this benighted land? Why am I not still up in the blissful seclusion of Le Roccie? And why is my house there not still standing? What malign fate has had all this in store for me?
So I go over it yet again and show the policemen the outhouses where I set the traps. I describe how I made all three starters, concealing only the exact quantities from them. One doesn’t give priceless recipes away to the police, especially not to men philistine enough to express incredulity when I describe the dishes. Suddenly, I’m very relieved that in the general excitement of my financial windfall I clean forgot to mention my inauspicious first meeting with the Baronet. I had intended to tell Adrian about my encounter in Monteith’s jungle , but by the time he arrived with Josh’s microscope there were more pressing things to think about. Now I realise how important it is that the police never find out that Sir Douglas and I exchanged tense words some days ago, even if the addled old buffer appeared not to recognise me last night. Certainly I don’t wish to give the police the least impression that as far as I’m concerned, the Bart.’s demise is one of those human tragedies that make one’s sides ache. Now, in the course of our explorations, we come across the potting shed where the Christs’ gardener – whom Jennifer describes as ‘a treasure’ – has his lair. Here the policemen poke about and become excited over an ancient bottle with a corroded cap on a shelf. The label reads ‘Squillo-Death’ and has a faded picture on it of a rat in terminal agony. Using plastic gloves they drop the bottle into an evidence bag.
‘And you say you’ve never seen this bottle before, sir?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I’ve never even been into this potting shed. The kitchen garden is not somewhere I visit frequently.’
At last they go away
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