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“But it really is a work in progress. You only have about fifty years of policing behind you. My world has hundreds, and even then, so much needs overhauling.”
He sobers. “So we never do get it right?”
“We will,” I say, with more certainty than I usually feel. “But you’re saying that no autopsies were conducted because Addington knows it’s poison. How?” I pause. “Is it the Marsh test? You have that by now, right, to test for arsenic?”
McCreadie throws up his hands. “There is some sort of test, and presumably Addington conducted it, because he ruled arsenic. That is all I know.”
“Can we get Dr. Gray to examine—?”
I’m stopped by a voice over my shoulder. We both freeze, like bloodhounds catching a scent. Instead of a scent, though, it is a word.
Poison.
I wave my hands, as if telling a story, and while my lips move, I say nothing. Instead, we focus on the voice behind me.
“I’m telling you, she poisoned the pudding. Everyone knows it. If thepolice cared to catch her, they’d have taken it straight from her icebox for ana-lyz-ation.”
“Can they do that?”
“Did you not read about that English case last year? Scotland Yard suspected the poison was in the chocolates, and they had them tested, and lo and behold, they were stuffed full of arsenic.”
I glance at McCreadie, but he’s pulled into himself, gaze emptying as he focuses on listening.
A third person joins in as the two initial conversationalists debate whether the police are inept or simply don’t give a damn.
“It had to be the pudding,” the newcomer says. “You know why they haven’t arrested her, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “They’re being canny. Watching her. Waiting for Mrs. Burns to sneak off to whoever gave her the poison. Then they can hang the lot of them.”
I glance at McCreadie. This time, he gives me a wry half shrug, one that says it wouldn’t be a bad idea… if they actually believed therewasa poison ring.
Could there be? Oh, I understand why Isla would bristle at the idea. “Poisoner” is an easy charge to level at a female chemist. Clearly she is not a “real” scientist and is only producing poison to sell to her fellow deviant women.
But here’s the thing: Couldn’t the urban legend of poison rings implant the idea ofcreatinga poison ring?
The three continue talking. It’s simple speculation, no clues embedded in the narrative, and I’m growing frustrated when I catch another conversation, this one coming from behind McCreadie.
It’s two women at a table beside ours, their heads together. I can’t tell who is saying what. I can barely pick up the conversation at all.
“I heard she got the poison from Queen Mab.”
“Who?”
“Queen Mab, over in—” The rest is drowned out.
“Does she sell…?” The woman’s voice drops, and I catch part of an unfamiliar word.
“She does. How far along are you?”
“I missed my last monthly. Been poorly in the mornings.”
“Go see Queen Mab. She’ll set you straight. Tell her I sent you. Better be quick, though, before the police catch up with her.”
More whispers, and when I glance at McCreadie, he’s listening intently, his brow furrowed. I lean and whisper, “Did you get the directions?” and he shakes his head.
The two women rise from their table. I glance at McCreadie.
“Ready to go, luv?” I say.
He slides an arm around my waist as we follow the women outside. I’m hoping they’ll pause to exchange goodbyes, and the one who gave the directions will repeat them. At the very least, I expect some hint as towhichwoman is heading to Queen Mab’s. But they walk out and go their separate ways with only a nod of farewell.
