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‘No.’ Fleur’s voice was small and filled with regret, as she recalled where she had been and how happy she had felt while her father was sighing his last breath. ‘I was taking care of someone who had been set upon by a band of thugs.’ She explained going to the hospital and then seeing Tom back to his accommodation. ‘The hospital wasn’t happy about him discharging himself, and I was told by the nurses that he would need watching because he’d taken a knock to his head.’

‘Is this your new beau?’

Again, Fleur blushed, hating that her emotions were on such vivid display. ‘Er, yes.’

‘I think I heard about this back at the station. Country lad?’

Fleur nodded.

‘Right. Just back to the rat poison, Miss Appleby. In your line of work, is there a way of noting arsenic being present?’

Fleur gave a tight, brief smile, grateful that she could lean on her knowledge. ‘I could describe skin pallor, for instance, but categorically?’ She shook her head. ‘Not without searching for its presence within the internal organs. I am confident it will show up in the post-mortem if we could be granted one.’

The inspector nodded; he appeared to be paying thoughtful attention to her remarks.

‘I will say, though, if you’re interested in the less categorical and don’t mind me giving an opinion, then I noted a curious aroma on my father’s breath in the last couple of months. I would describe it as stale in a mousey sort of way. I know that sounds strange, but to describe a smell or a taste, you need a metaphor in the same way that a connoisseur would describe wine or tobacco. My father’s breath was not stale from age or an unclean mouth. He was fastidious with his hygiene, which is what made it all the more mysterious. No, his breath was recently tarnished by something coming from within. We were all eating the same food each morning and evening. I have read somewhere – one of my reference books, probably – that arsenic, if consumed, can give off an aroma not unlike sniffing at a mousehole. That’s how the text put it.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, it’s vivid, but perhaps not helpful.’

‘For someone who doesn’t sniff at mouseholes, you mean?’

She found a ragged smile. ‘Yes, exactly, but it does paint a picture. It’s sad; he seemed so delighted to be tasting good coffee again the night I switched the cups. He didn’t know that the coffee wasn’t the culprit.’

‘And you have proof?’

‘I have the test I’ve mentioned. I have the housekeeper, who will confirm that she was ordered to purchase more rat killer when we needed none, and that the previous tin had been finished quickly with no rats being killed or even sighted to warrant using the poison.’

‘This is the same person who found the decayed oysters, which were thrown out? I assume the rubbish has already been collected.’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, that find would be deemed circumstantial, Miss Appleby. There is no proof that Mrs Appleby was responsible for those. In fact, she could argue that you were the one who picked up the oysters and could have been responsible for the bad ones.’

Fleur looked back at him, aghast.

‘I’m guiding you as to how a defence counsel might argue, Miss Appleby. Evidence has to provide concrete proof – no reasonable doubt. It cannot be your word against another.’ He held up a hand. ‘You could argue differently, but you cannot prove Mrs Appleby was moving around those oysters.’

Fleur shook her head in despair.

The inspector tapped the pen on his notebook in thought. ‘Finally, Miss Appleby, can I ask why you think your stepmother would do this?’

Fleur didn’t hesitate. ‘I don’t believe Irma ever loved my father, but she loved his status and his money. I think she always hoped he would die early and was almost comfy with the fact that he was an alcoholic, making the right noises but not really discouraging him from his drinking. It’s my opinion that the rat poison helped his liver to decline faster. I was also in the way of her having everything she wanted – the house, income from the business, to live life exactly how she pleased and independently. At first her plan was to marry me off into a family that she knew would complement the business. It would keep the income steady and she felt she could control me via a husband who was in a business partnership with her. But when I refused, she shifted her plan, first to get my father to change his will, and then to speed up his death. Once Dad was out of the way, she would be declared his beneficiary and I could be asked to leave my home and my business, which she intended to sell to a coffin-maker who is keen to enter the undertaking business.’

‘So it’s money. That’s what you allege her crime is about?’ He didn’t give much away in his tone but Fleur thought he sounded as though her explanation was plausible.

‘Not just money – independent wealth. My father was a wealthy man who lived rather simply. He had no expansive tastes or desires. Irma is the opposite. She fancies herself quite the lady of the manor, and she wanted to live more . . . gregariously, shall we say. I suspect her plan was to move to the other side of the city – perhaps even to a new state, I don’t know. I just imagine she would have wanted to put distance between herself and her crime.’

‘You seem very sure, Miss Appleby.’

‘I am very sure, Inspector Green. My stepmother is a murderess and I’m confident further investigation will prove my suspicions.’

He closed the notebook he’d been scribbling into, looking as though he was readying to leave.

‘So what happens now?’ she asked before he could stand. ‘I have no doubt my stepmother is deemed the next of kin and will likely not insist upon a post-mortem.’ She gave a mirthless twitch of a smile. ‘Nor would I, if I had used poison to kill my husband. She says she’s innocent, but will you let the coroner take a look, Inspector? If my father’s liver failed from complications of alcohol – as the doctor would likely suggest – then there would have been more signs leading up to last night. I know a bit about physiology, Inspector, and a liver does not stop working as abruptly as a heart might. Please . . . we must respect my father enough to go through with a post-mortem to discover the true cause of death. That’s all I’m asking. If I’m wrong, I will publicly apologise to Irma. I will leave this house and its contents, and my position at Appleby’s – even this city, if that’s what she wants. But I am prepared to bet my life’s work on the fact that my father did not simply die . . . he was killed.’

‘Miss Appleby, it doesn’t matter what I think. I present the facts, and the coroner alone will decide whether or not a post mortem is necessary.’

Next, Nan was called in, arriving trembling and pale to be questioned, and Fleur was asked to leave the room so that the inspector could speak to Nan in private. And then it was Irma’s turn, escorted in with the detective constable, but they still kept Fleur and Nan separated.

The phone rang. ‘May I?’ Fleur asked Bowers.