*

(In which the murderer reveals himself and cliches occur. More than
usual.)

*

It troubled me for a while afterwards. I was still unconvinced, aware
that the Pollards had a stronger motive for murder, but it did seem to
add up to Smith (the Professor, not the chap at the pub, nor the
doctor, nor Sarah) being the blackmailer. Now that the vicar had
planted the idea in my head, I could not uproot it.

With it, came a vision of Miss Smith paying him visits for that
precious interview of hers. If it was true, she was so curious and
bright, she might uncover the truth and make the same mistake as Polly
about what he was capable of. I mean, if he was the murderer, which
he might not be. Might be Magister, trying to throw me off the scent
or something.

Still, she ought to know. She would probably consider me a liar, but
it could hardly be worse than what she already thought of me. At
least she would be warned and I could always send her to ask the vicar
if she doubted me.

I set off towards The Dark Horse in the hope of finding her.

*

Mrs Briggs eyed me in that way that put me in mind of a fierce sort of
bird (probably one with talons and a vicious beak) and demanded to
know what I – a murder suspect – wanted with one of her guests.

“I only need to tell her something,” I said. “Please, just ask her,
if she’s in. If not, I’ll write her a note.”

She pushed the movable section of the bar counter up with a bang and
charged off up the stairs while I watched and waited, my mouth dry and
my heart thudding. What if Sarah refused to believe me? It would
sound as incredible as the rest.

“She’s not answering,” said Mrs Briggs, returning. “You’d better
leave your note.”

I nodded, biting back my disappointment. I pulled out a sheet of
paper and contemplated what to write.

“It’s funny,” she added, “because I’d swear the other gentleman only
just left and I didn’t see her go out. Maybe she wants to be left
alone.”

I was so busy trying to compose my letter that I nearly missed the
significance of what she had said. “Wait. What other gentlemen?”

“Only that old scientist from Mill Cottage,” she said, with a laugh at
my reaction.

I caught hold of her, dropping both paper and pen. “Smith? Professor
Smith came to see her – and you let him go upstairs?”

“Well, he was rather elderly,” she said. “It was as much as he could
do to get up there.”

I looked at her. “If you have a spare key, go and fetch it. And send
someone round for my bag!”

“Dr Sullivan?”

I turned. “If I’m wrong, people can laugh all they like, but better
safe than sorry!”

*

I raced up the stairs and then realised that I had no idea which of
the rooms she was in. I had to shout back down for Mrs Briggs, who
came to join me with the key, still giving me suspicious looks.

She opened the nearest door and I rushed in. Sarah was lying on the
floor, probably fallen from the chair beside her. On the small table
next to it was a glass. As I reached it, I noted a small packet of
some powder. I grabbed at it and then knelt beside her.

“Sarah? Miss Smith? Can you hear me?”

Mrs Briggs was behind me. She pulled a piece of paper off the table.
“Suicide,” she gasped. “What possessed the girl?”

“It’s not suicide,” I said. “It’s murder if it’s anything – only it’s
not because we’re going to save her. Now, go down stairs and call for
an ambulance. And fetch some salt and a glass of water!”

She sniffed. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Quickly!” I shouted at her and then turned back to Sarah, pulling her
up and shaking her. “Sarah, come on…”

*

She stirred a little. I gave her a gentle slap to the face. She
managed to open her eyes and looked back at me fuzzily. As it
registered, she tried to move away.

“Honestly,” I said. “Professor Smith tried to poison you, so you
should know it’s not me you have to be afraid of.”

Mrs Briggs returned with the water and salt. I glanced up at her.
“And a basin, please.”

“Anything else?” she snapped. I wondered about the priorities of some
people around here.

I called after her. “Actually, yes. You should send for Inspector
Mackenzie as well. Tell him it’s urgent.”

*

I held the glass to her lips. “Come on, Sarah. Drink this.”

She did so, but she was hardly herself and she spat it back out again.

“Sarah,” I said, since it was literally a matter of life or death,
“you’ve got to swallow it. And if you don’t, I’ll only have to try
something worse. I could get Mrs Briggs to go and find the mustard –
and, damn it all, I’m not the one trying to poison you!”

She gave up her protests after that, although she grimaced as she
swallowed the salt water. Moments later, I had cause to be glad I’d
remember to ask Mrs Briggs to fetch a basin. (She’d got into the
swing of the emergency now, even coming back with a ragged towel, a
glass of plain water and a blanket).

I kept hold of Sarah till she’d finished and then, just to be on the
safe side, made her drink some more of the mixture. She was more
herself now, enough to manage a glare in my direction and a threat to
kill me later.

“Be my guest, old thing,” I said, as she swallowed it. “As long as
you’re alive to make the attempt, you take whatever revenge you like.”

I removed the glass and waited for the inevitable result but I thought
we’d already rid her of a good deal of the poison. Thank goodness
we’d found her in time. I steadied her as she retched again and
passed her the old towel when she’d done.

Eventually, she leant back against the foot of the bed, where I’d
propped her up and said shakily, “I’ll promise never to get you
arrested again, if you swear you’ll let me die in peace next time.”

“Sorry, old girl,” I said, unable to keep the smile out of my voice,
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

*

She was still pale and clearly not fit to be doing anything yet, but
she insisted on trying to get up.

“This is no time for being the plucky heroine,” I instructed her.
“Sit still and stop complaining. You’re lucky you’re alive.”

She lifted her head, weak but stubborn as always. “Don’t talk as if
I’m some damsel in distress. I’m the detective.”

I smiled to myself. I might not be the brightest spark in the box and
I’d never amount to anything more than a Dr Watson if this were a
mystery story, but I do know some things. “You’re the plucky
heroine. I don’t think you could ever manage to be anything else, old
girl.”

“You’re infuriating,” she accused. “O-oh. I feel sick.”

“If you will go around letting people try to poison you, that’s only
to be expected,” I pointed out. “Let’s just wait for the inspector to
arrive, shall we?”

“Harry,” she said quietly as I checked her pulse again. “Thank you.”

I shook my head at her. “It’s only my job, Sarah.”

She closed her eyes, but she squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry I thought
you were the murderer.”

“Perfectly understandable,” I said, since she was unwell and needed to
be humoured.

*

“Well, well, well,” said Inspector Mackenzie as he entered the room
for the second time that afternoon. The first time, he’d turned up at
the same time as the ambulance and hared out after Smith, while I saw
to getting Sarah off to hospital.

Now he stared at me with his arms folded.

“What?” I said. “Couldn’t you find him?”

He coughed. “The thing is, Dr Sullivan, reckoned he was shocked to
hear it and said *you* were the one who prescribed the headache
powder. He only lent it to Miss Smith when she complained of a
migraine. Which is pretty much what Miss Smith said. I can’t arrest
him without more evidence.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” I said, beginning to feel
irritated. We’d all but caught the fellow in the act and now
Mackenzie wanted proof.

He stopped, looking over the table, the glass and the note still
sitting there. “Hallo. What’s this – suicide after all?”

“How could he know she’d take the whole thing in one go?” I said
sarcastically, although it had only looked like one dosage to me.
Which is plenty enough to kill someone if you’ve put arsenic in the
packet instead.

He brightened. “That’s odd, you know. That’s something.”

“Can I have a look?” I asked and took it from him. It was
disconcerting to see the words there, and in Sarah’s own hand. I
can’t go on… This is the last straw…

I stopped and gave Mackenzie a smile. “We’ve got him. I know what
this is – it’s the letter he dictated to Miss Smith when we went
around the other day. Or at least, part of it. The cunning old devil
– he was planning for this even then!”

“Hmm,” said Mackenzie. “I don’t suppose that will do, either. We
need something a little more solid than that.”

I paced about the room. “But why did he try to kill her? Why risk
something like that for no reason? He wouldn’t.”

“It might have been you,” he reminded me.

I glared at him. “Oh, yes – and then I changed my mind and decided to
save her life instead?”

“Well, if Smith is right, you were trying to murder *him* because he
saw you with the book, not Miss Smith.”

I closed my eyes and tried to think about it. The inspector was being
no help whatsoever. “There’s only one answer I can think of. She’s
been interviewing him over the last week. What if he said something
he didn’t intend to? He’s pretty vain and he might have let something
slip. And he’d realise that Sarah’s bright enough to put two and two
together once she started typing everything up. In which case -.”

I made a dive for her notebook, still on the bedside table. I showed
it to Mackenzie. “See? Someone’s ripped out a page or two.”

“You had plenty of time to do that to corroborate your story,” he
said.

I was tempted to hit him with the notebook, but I had a feeling he
wouldn’t worry about arresting me a second time. It was bad enough
having him think me a murderer, but letting Smith wander about, free
to try and kill Sarah again – or start on someone else – was
unthinkable.

“I have an idea,” Mackenzie said suddenly. “Listen to me, young
Sullivan. This should prove who’s the real killer around here...”

*

“Are you sure about this?” I asked. I was getting cold feet about the
whole thing now that it came to it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to
do everything I could to bring the fellow to justice, but I wasn’t
sure I could trust Mackenzie not to turn up a little too late.

He munched on sandwiches provided by Mrs Briggs, who had discovered
that having someone nearly murdered in the pub had created sudden
interest and a number of paying customers downstairs. She’d instantly
mellowed and offered us lunch on the house.

“Look, Sullivan,” he said. “I’m in an impossible position. Now, if
you go to him with this note of yours and confront him, past behaviour
– if I’m to believe you – indicates that he’ll have to try and be rid
of you. At which point, Benton and I burst in and arrest him.”

I nodded. “I understand. I’m only worried that you might arrest him
*after* he’s killed me.”

“Well, I’ll know you’re innocent then, if that’s any consolation.
What do you say?”

I had little choice. There was nothing to stop the fellow from going
to the hospital and trying to hurt Sarah or whatever he took it into
his head to do as a follow up to curing a headache with arsenic. If
the vicar had realised the truth, maybe he’d be hanging from the
rafters with a suicide note pinned to the lectern next.

“I agree.”

Mackenzie swallowed the last few crumbs of his roast beef sandwich and
brushed down his tunic. “Capital. And if you start trying to kill
him, we’ll burst in and arrest you.”

“Thank you, inspector.”

*

I headed off towards Mill Cottage, only to meet Miss Rumford on the
way. She waved at me and I moved across to her.

“Sorry to bother you, Sullivan,” she said in her abrupt manner, “but
if you’re off to see Professor Smith, I gather he went to call on
you.”

I stared at her.

“I expect he’s complaining about his joints again,” she said with a
disapproving sniff.

I nodded. “Mmph. Yes. I expect so.”

I turned round and hurried off, followed at a not very inconspicuous
distance by Benton and Mackenzie. What was this about? Did he intend
to try and do away with me already? It seemed rather reckless of him.

*

I entered the house, careful to leave the door ajar behind me, so that
the two policemen wouldn’t be left outside and crept down the hallway
and peered into the lounge. Smith was sitting in there, cool as you
like, humming to himself and reading one of my medical textbooks.
(The tiger bearded in his den, or what-have-you, except it wasn’t his
den, it was my house.)

“Looking for more poisons, are you?” I demanded, remembering the part
I had to play. “You’ve got a nerve.”

He chuckled slightly and put the book down. “Really, my dear boy, you
do say some strange things. If I innocently pass on medicine given to
me by my GP, I don’t see that I can be expected to realise that
someone had placed arsenic inside it. What it says about you, on the
other hand -.”

“I haven’t been trying to poison anyone,” I said. “You have. And you
had the book – you stole it from me. You must have done.”

He got to his feet. “I must have done? Hardly logical, Sutton.
There are any number of people in this village who had the
opportunity. You don’t take very good care of your belongings, do
you? But let us not go into that, since several people can testify to
seeing the book in your possession throughout your time here.”

I wondered if the Inspector would arrest me if I hit him. At this
point, he probably would. Instead, I held out the note. “Explain
this one away!”

“The poor girl,” he said with a shake of his head. “She must have
intended to kill herself in any case – ironic that you inadvertently
gave her a helping hand.”

I folded my arms. “I heard you dictate that letter to Miss Smith.
And since she’s not dead, she’ll be able to confirm that. You’re
finished.”

“Oh, no,” he said, meeting my gaze with ice blue eyes. “I’m not
finished at all, but I think you are, Dr Sullivan. This last little
accident was one step too far for you and you’ve finally decided to
show some remorse at your crimes. You don’t feel like writing a
confession, do you?”

I swallowed. Despite the fact that he was hardly any match for me and
I had two policemen waiting for my call somewhere in the house, I
still felt cold. He seemed so confident in himself, I could almost
have believed him, even though I knew what rot he was spouting. “No.”

“I thought that was a little too much to hope for,” he sighed, “but
I’m sure everyone else will make the inference and we can all return
to normal. Worth dying for, wouldn’t you say?”

I clenched my fists. “No. Besides, I don’t see what you can do now
that you’ve told me.”

“Really?” he said with scorn. “No, I don’t suppose you do. That, my
dear boy, is your mistake and my good fortune.”

I moved forward. “Well, you can just get out of here now!”

“How rude,” he said and then suddenly, doubled up and sat back down on
the sofa in apparent agony.

I watched him, unmoved. “I’m not going to fall for that one, Smith.”

“My knee,” he said, grimacing. “Help me up, at least.”

I glared. “I don’t think so. You old fraud.”

He began to whimper pitifully and was clearly not about to move from
his position. I’d had about as much of his performance as I could
take. I moved forward impatiently and dragged him to his feet, about
to shout for Mackenzie to give me a hand, when Smith – who I belatedly
realised, must have been clutching something with his other hand,
hidden by the side of the sofa – hit me hard, knocking me to the
ground. I tried to get up, too stunned to yell, but he struck me
again – I saw this time (in between stars) that it was his cane. I
blacked out.

*

I swam in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of being dragged
somewhere. The hypocrite, I thought muzzily, before passing out
again. So much for the arthritis, and who was his doctor? Me, that’s
who. I really should have noticed something before it came to this.

The next thing I knew, the ground was cold beneath me and someone –
presumably Smith was banging something about behind me. I wondered
where Mackenzie and Benton had got to and tried to sit, but the old
man must have hit me again.

The last time, it was still dark, but by the time I’d begun to
understand why – and what that slight, hissing sound was – it was far
too late.