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“Jesus,” he growled when the urge to be sick overwhelmed him.
Racing behind the retiring screen, he swore off fruit cake for life as he promptly lost the contents of his stomach. Moss retched and retched and didn’t seem able to stop. Eventually, he began to suspect that something was seriously wrong. When he did manage to stumble, pale and shaken, back into the room, Moss eyed the remaining cake balefully.
“What the Hell is she trying to do, kill me?” he growled only to pause when he realised what he had just said. His stomach fell to his knees and he stared at the fruit cake with renewed suspicion. “Mother of God. No. It can’t be her. Not Clementine.”
The thought that she might be the killer was enough to make Moss start to shake. He slumped into the chair behind his desk in disbelief. Once there, he leaned forward and sniffed the cake suspiciously. It was unsurprising that all he could smell was the heady scent of rich fruit, but there was something more in it, he was sure of it. It was faint but an odour of something lingered beneath that of the fruit. He sniffed again but backed away warily when his stomach began to roil alarmingly again. Eventually, it built in ferocity until it forced him to head behind the retiring screen again.
“Sir?”
“Let me die in peace, Mrs Marks,” Moss growled from behind the screen. He cursed bitterly when he realised that he was probably going to do just that. “On second thoughts, give me a moment. I need you to do a special job for me. Find me a box, about the size of a plate.”
“Whatever for?” Mrs Marks asked, eyeing the window and the fruit cake in equal measure.
“Just do it.”
Mrs Marks hastily shuffled off leaving Moss to groan in misery from the pain in his stomach. He was certain the Devil was trying to brand him from the inside with a red-hot poker. He started to sweat and shake to the point that he couldn’t stand up.
“Why? Why would you do this, Clementine?” he whispered even though deep inside a part of him devoutly refused to accept that she was responsible. “She has to be responsible because she signed the note.”
But then why would she send me a cake that she has poisoned? Why would she risk someone else seeing the note that condemns her?
Moss had little doubt that the cake did contain poison of some sort and it was a poison he had just readily eaten.
“Mother of God, it works fast,” he whispered, wondering how long it was going to take before it overcame his system and took his life.
Determined to thwart it, Moss staggered over to the brandy decanter and poured a healthy dose, knowing that it was best to make himself throw up again – and quickly. He downed one goblet, then another, and another, until his stomach was full, and he was sick again. It took some time before his stomach was empty and he was retching fresh air but even then, Moss didn’t stop. He drank more brandy until his beleaguered stomach rejected that as well. It was only when there was nothing more to throw up, but his stomach still burned fiercely, that Moss finally gave up and sent Mrs Marks to fetch the doctor.
While she had gone, Moss staggered and stumbled his way through the house, and up the stairs to his bed chamber. What followed was probably the worst day of his entire life. Moss was violently and repeatedly sick to the point that he couldn’t get up. Now that Mrs Marks had parcelled the cake up in a box and had left it on Moss’s bedside cupboard, Moss was able to rest easily. Nobody else could be hurt, or killed, by the damned thing. Moreover, with each hour of sufferance he endured but didn’t die from, Moss realised that he might just survive after all – until the doctor arrived. Moss realised then that he may just die, but from the doctor’s supposed ‘cure’. He learnt what a Fate worse than death truly meant.
“First the cake, now you. How much more am I supposed to stand?” Moss growled at the doctor when he came to see him the following day.
“How are you this morning?”
Moss shook his head and threw his friend a dour look. “At some time around two o’clock this morning, I thought I would prefer to die.”
Doctor Benjamin Kilmarnock grinned. “Maybe you should be a bit more careful about how much you imbibe?”
“It wasn’t brandy, or drugs, or anything other than some questionable fruit cake,” Moss reported with a dark curse.
“Fruit cake isn’t likely to kill,” the doctor snorted.
“Well, it is what I ate and what nearly killed me.”
“Who made it?” Ben straightened and frowned at Moss.
“The note says it is from someone I know, but either they are a really bad cook or a secret killer I have been trying to capture,” Moss muttered.
“You are trying to capture a killer?” Ben asked, his brows shooting up to his hairline.
“Yes. I think the killer left me his method of killing his victims,” Moss sighed. “I need it confirming though.”
Ben sighed. “Where is it?”
“Over there.” Moss pointed to the box. “Mrs Marks has put it in a box so nobody can eat it.”
“Are you expecting any guests?” Ben asked.
“No, but I don’t want anybody taking any chances,” Moss argued. “How would it look if someone who came to see me died while they were here?”
