‘Poisoned?’ Riley nodded. ‘I rather thought he might have been, given the report I just received from my constables. How sure are you at this early stage?’
‘Fairly sure. We are doing more tests on his internal organs. Quite interesting actually.’
‘Spare us the details, Doctor,’ Salter said from his position against the wall.
‘Sorry, Sergeant. I tend to forget about your squeamishness. Anyway, he’d frothed at the mouth. The evidence was there, long after the event, because he’d fallen on his face and there was still some spume dried on the sides of his mouth and on his chin. In his throat too. I suspect that he’d been about to be sick when he was killed.’
‘He was also seen staggering about in the tavern,’ Riley said. ‘It was generally supposed that he was drunk, but poison would give him cramps, would it not?’
‘Strychnine would, Lord Riley, if that’s what was added to his drink, and it would act fast too.’
‘Wouldn’t he have noticed the taste?’ Salter asked. ‘I thought it was bitter.’
‘It is, but mixed with a strong liquor like whisky or brandy in small quantities he wouldn’t have been any the wiser until it was too late. It doesn’t have an odour either.’
‘I thought he was hit over the head,’ Salter said.
‘He was, and it was the blow that killed him. As I say, the poison would have been administered in small quantities, not enough to kill him. It merely debilitated, making it impossible for him to defend himself.’
‘So a weak man or even a strong woman could have finished him off,’ Riley said, rubbing his chin as he thought the matter through.
‘I’d say so, and it would make more sense of the need to debilitate. Either that, or someone really didn’t like him and wanted to make a point.’ Maynard stood. ‘Anyway, I shall let you know when I am absolutely sure, but thought what I’ve found might help your enquiry.’
‘Indeed it will.’ Riley stood too and shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Dr Maynard.’
‘This case gets more curious by the minute,’ Salter said after the doctor had left.
‘That it does, Jack. And I’m now highly suspicious of the woman he was seen talking with. One assumes he wouldn’t have been on his guard with her, or worried about the contents of his glass.’
‘She could have slipped the poison in and her accomplice could have been waiting outside to finish him off.’
‘It’s one possibility. Anyway, let’s keep what we know about the poison to ourselves for now, and not let anything slip when we interview the family.’
‘Poison is a lady’s weapon of choice. I’ve heard you say that before, sir. All the women we know about were half in love with him though, and didn’t wish him any harm.’ Salter harrumphed. ‘Seems one of them might have done, though, if she felt she had a grievance. Perhaps she’d found out about Lady Randall.’
‘Possibly. I fancy we shall be making a visit to Clapham ourselves tomorrow, Jack, but in the meantime we’d best get ourselves back to Portman Square and talk to the family.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
They left Scotland Yard together and took a cab for the short trip.
‘James and Gregg are our most obvious suspects from those beneath Lady Randall’s roof,’ Salter said, ‘and you have the lads checking James’s story out. But what about Gregg?’
‘He will be more difficult to catch out,’ Riley replied, ‘which is why I intend to put Stout on that particular assignment. He has a network of useful informants amongst London’s senior servants. I suspect he might be more successful in discovering anything that’s hidden beneath the surface than we will be if we go in asking intrusive questions.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Salter replied. ‘Your man has a way of ferreting out the truth.’
Riley chuckled. ‘That he does, Jack.’
‘What do we know about Sir Philip? I mean, what sort of man marries an heiress with a sordid reputation, then allows her to run amok with her servants? I reckon he married her for her fortune, but she says she kept control of that, so it makes no sense.’
‘I know you disapprove of Ida’s liberated behaviour, but try to keep an open mind. I have never met Sir Philip, although I know of him by reputation.’
‘Not in your social class, sir?’ Salter asked impudently.
‘Precisely, but I shall be interested to make his acquaintance and take his measure, then perhaps the picture will become clearer.’
They were admitted to the Portman Square house by a grim-faced Gregg, who could barely disguise his disapproval at the intrusion, despite knowing they were expected.
‘It is Sir Philip’s birthday,’ he pointed out.
‘It’s the day after Ezra Dawson’s murder,’ Salter replied, an edge to his voice.
Gregg took their hats without further comment. ‘Sir Philip is expecting you, gentlemen. He is in his library. Please follow me.’
A tall man with a shock of thick white hair and intelligent grey eyes, who had to be a good ten years older than his wife, stood from behind a large desk neatly piled with papers when Gregg announced them.
‘Lord Riley.’ Sir Philip extended his hand and smiled. ‘Good to make your acquaintance. I only wish it could have been under different circumstances.’
‘Sir Philip.’ Riley shook his hand. ‘This is Sergeant Salter.’
It was a point in Sir Philip’s favour that he also shook Salter’s hand, as far as Riley was concerned. Men who had high opinions of themselves did not always acknowledge his subordinate.
‘Please sit down, gentlemen. I dare say you have questions for me.’
‘Thank you.’ Riley took a chair to one side of the fireplace and Sir Philip took its twin. Salter, as always, remained standing,
