The Perfect Poison Read Free

immediately beneath the bland, slightly bumbling façade he affected. But she knew now that she had to be very careful.
    “Extremely uncommon,” she said briskly. “Only a scientist or chemist of some genius could have concocted that poison.”
    “Psychical genius?” Spellar asked quietly.
    “Possibly.” She sighed. “I will be honest, Inspector. I have never before encountered this particular blend of ingredients in any poison.” And that, she thought, was no more or less than the absolute truth.
    “I see.” Spellar assumed a resigned air. “I suppose I shall have to start with the apothecary shops, for all the good it will do. There has always been a lively underground trade in poisons carried on in such establishments. A would-be widow can purchase a toxic substance quite easily. When the husband drops dead she can claim that it was an accident. She bought the stuff to kill the rats. It was just unfortunate that her spouse accidentally drank some of it.”
    “There are thousands of apothecary shops in London.”
    He snorted. “Not to mention the establishments that sell herbs and patent medicines. But I may be able to narrow the list of possibilities by concentrating on shops near this address.”
    She pulled on her gloves. “You are convinced this is murder, then? Not a suicide?”
    The sharp gleam came and went again in Spellar’s eyes. “This is murder, all right,” he said softly. “I can feel it.”
    She shivered, not doubting his intuition for a second.
    “One cannot help but observe that Lady Fairburn will look quite attractive in mourning,” she said.
    Spellar smiled slightly. “The same thought occurred to me, as well.”
    “Do you think she killed him?”
    “It would not be the first time that an unhappy young wife who longed to be both free and wealthy fed poison to her much older husband.” He rocked on his heels once or twice. “But there are other possibilities in that household. First, I must find the source of the poison.”
    Her insides tightened. She fought to keep the fear out of her expression. “Yes, of course. Good luck, Inspector.”
    “Thank you for coming here today.” He lowered his voice. “I apologize for the rudeness that you were obliged to endure in the Fairburn household.”
    “That was in no way your fault.” She smiled slightly. “We both know that I am accustomed to such behavior.”
    “That does not make it any more tolerable.” Spellar’s expression turned uncharacteristically somber. “The fact that you are willing to expose yourself to such behavior in order to assist me from time to time puts me all the more deeply into your debt.”
    “Nonsense. We share a common goal. Neither of us wishes to see killers walk free. But I fear you have your work cut out for you this time.”
    “So it would seem. Good day, Miss Bromley.”
    He assisted her up into the dainty little cab, closed the door and stepped back. She settled against the cushions, pulled the folds of her cloak snugly around her and gazed out at the sea of fog.
    The traces of the fern that she had detected in the poison had unnerved her as nothing else had since the death of her father. There was only one specimen of Ameliopteris amazonensis in all of England. Until last month it had been growing in her private conservatory.

TWO
    THE COLORFUL POSTERS IN FRONT OF THE THEATER heralded him as The Amazing Mysterio, Master of Locks . His real name was Edmund Fletcher and he was well aware that he was not particularly amazing onstage. Give him a locked house and he could slip inside, as undetectable as fog. Once on the premises, he could locate the homeowner’s valuables, no matter how well concealed. Indeed, he had a talent for the craft of breaking and entering. The difficulty was that he had once again decided to try his hand at making an honest living. The attempt, like all previous efforts in that direction, was faltering badly.
    He had opened to sparse audiences and the crowds were only