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‘Oh, shut up, Irma!’ Both of them winced but Fleur ignored their alarm. ‘I wish for a post-mortem to be performed on my father.’ She was impressed at how calm and reasonable she sounded.

The doctor’s alarm intensified. ‘Good grief. What in heaven’s name for, Fleur? That will only prolong the shock. You and Irma need to get on with your grieving and plans for Henry’s burial, not—’

‘I know you will have pronounced him dead from the complications of his alcohol consumption – no doubt cirrhosis – but you said yourself you think it was the oysters. I believe my father has been deliberately poisoned.’

‘Deliberately?’ he repeated, aghast.

‘Yes, by fetid oysters, and I suspect arsenic has also played a keen role.’

His mouth formed an ‘o’ but no sound came out, his features slackening with horror. He blinked and finally found his voice. ‘Arsenic? You cannot be serious.’

‘I am always serious, apparently,’ she said, her tone as dark and forbidding as a newly dug grave.

‘Arsenic,’ he repeated, incredulous.

Irma stepped back into the fray. ‘Doctor, I think Fleur needs a sedative. She’s rambling because she adored her father and, like me, she can’t believe he’s gone.’ She gave another sob.

‘Go away, Irma,’ Fleur said, sounding almost weary now. ‘Run if you want; you’ll be hunted down. The police are going to be called and I swear I shall see you in handcuffs.’

The doctor took a step back, looking as if he’d taken a blow. ‘I . . . I don’t understand.’

‘No, I know you don’t. But I suspect Irma does.’

Fleur had to hand it to her: the woman had an amazing ability to give a performance. Irma’s stance didn’t change. She even managed to look injured by the accusation but, just a heartbeat before the doctor turned his head slowly to gaze at Irma with fresh shock, Fleur saw it. Irma’s gaze narrowed slightly like a trapped animal looking for an exit and in the same moment Fleur saw the spark of rage and loathing flash in Irma’s eyes before she closed them, apparently in mortification at Fleur’s allegation. Fleur suspected her stepmother’s mind was now racing into damage control . . . and especially how to refute the claim convincingly.

‘How could you say such lies, Fleur?’ she demanded, her voice wavering again, and her body now trembling too. ‘Oh, Doctor, I think I’m going to need a powder or something to calm my nerves. I can’t take this. You’d better plan another coffin, Fleur, if you’re going to carry on like this – my heart won’t stand it.’

Fleur turned to the doctor. ‘She’ll be fine,’ Fleur said, bustling the poor man towards the door. She all but herded him down the landing and ultimately down the stairs, where she stood in front of the telephone. ‘Would you please call the police, Dr Parsons?’

‘Fleur, this is a most dreadful situation. Are you really sure you wish to pursue this course? Your father was not a well—’

‘Let’s not mince our words. My father was probably an alcoholic, and I have no doubt his liver would have given up at some stage. But not yet. He was not near death. So hold that death certificate. I forbid you to write it out, no matter what Irma demands of you.’

‘But what if—?’

‘Just give me the opportunity to substantiate my claim. Let the coroner make a decision.’ Fleur suspected she’d just lost an ally, going by the pursed look of his lips. He wasn’t happy, but he also wasn’t going to obstruct justice; that much she could read. ‘You’ve known me since I was a child. You know I don’t lie and—’

‘I know you to be very sure of yourself, Fleur,’ he said carefully, but she saw a hint of annoyance ghost across his features.

‘As I am very sure of myself now in my accusation,’ she agreed, hoping that might satisfy him.

The doctor shook his head and began tutting. ‘Fleur . . . this is an incredibly grave accusation. You’re talking murder, by the woman who has looked after you since you were a child.’

‘By the woman who has done no such thing. My father has looked after me. Irma simply tolerated me. Now she doesn’t have to. I’m a truth seeker; I’m not trying to set Irma up or besmirch her reputation out of mischief.’

‘Hardly mischief, Fleur,’ he admonished her. ‘This could mean her life. Think on it.’

‘Yes, it could. And I don’t have to think on it any further than all the years I’ve suspected my stepmother of being insincere. I loved him. She didn’t. We are talking about my father – your friend. You owe it to him to find the truth.’

He shook his head in a way that suggested he felt helpless. ‘Right,’ he said, showing his palms. ‘I’ll call the police now, and wait outside to speak to them. I’m very sorry for you both. There’s only loss here.’

Fleur nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as if deeply chilled. ‘I will deliver him myself to the city morgue for the coroner.’ She pointed upstairs to the room where he lay, unable to hold in her rage any longer. ‘Mark my words, my father was murdered. And now I must go to him. Good morning, Doctor.’

She turned and left him standing in the hall, still in shock.

22

It felt like she was participating in a gunfight in one of those Western films that her father had taken her to see at the cinema when she was young. She and Irma regarded each other, equally grim-faced, across the bed where her dead father lay. All that was missing were the pistols and stetsons.