Free Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers

Yard.
     
    Chief-Inspector Parker was, as usual, delighted to see Lord Peter, but there was a worried expression on his plain though pleasant face as he greeted his visitor.
    “What is it, Peter? The Vane case again? ”
    “Yes. You’ve come a mucker over this, old man, you really have.”
    “Well, I don’t know. It looked pretty straightforward to us.”
    “Charles, acushla, distrust the straightforward case, the man who looks you straight in the eyes, and the tip straight from the horse’s mouth. Only the most guileful deceiver can afford to be so aggressively straight. Even the path of the light is curved – or so they tell us. For God’s sake, old man, do what you can to put the thing right before next assizes. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Damn it, you don’t want to hang the wrong person, do you? – especially a woman and all that.”
    “Have a fag,” said Parker. “You’re looking quite wild about the eyes. What have you been doing with yourself? I’m sorry if we’ve got the wrong pig by the ear, but it’s the defence’s business to point out where we’re wrong, and I can’t say they put up a very convincing show.”
    “No, confound them. Biggy did his best, but that fool and beast Crofts gave him no materials at all. Blast his ugly eyes! I know the brute thinks she did it. I hope he will fry in hell and be served up with cayenne pepper on a red hot dish!”
    “What eloquence!” said Parker, unimpressed. “Anybody would think you’d gone goopy over the girl.”
    “That’s a damned friendly way to talk,” said Wimsey, bitterly. “When you went off the deep end about my sister, I may have been unsympathetic – I daresay I was – but I swear I didn’t dance on your tenderest feelings and call your manly devotion ‘going goopy over a girl.’ I don’t know where you pick up such expressions, as the clergyman’s wife said to the parrot. ‘Goopy,’ indeed! I never heard anything so vulgar!”
    “Good lord,” exclaimed Parker, “you don’t seriously say -”
    “Oh, no!” retorted Wimsey, bitterly. “I’m not expected to be serious. A buffoon, that’s what I am. I now know exactly what Jack Point feels like. I used to think the ‘Yeomen’ sentimental tosh, but it is all too true. Would you like to see me dance in motley?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Parker, taking his cue rather from the tone than the words. “If it’s like that, I’m damned sorry, old man. But what can I do?”
    “Now you’re talking. Look here – the most likely thing is that this unsavoury blighter Boyes committed suicide. The unspeakable defence haven’t been able to trace any arsenic to his possession – but then they probably couldn’t trace a herd of black cattle over a snow-bound field in broad noonday with a microscope. I want your people to take it up.”
    “Boyes – query arsenic,” said Parker, making a note on a pad. “Anything else?”
    “Yes. Find out if Boyes visited any pub in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street between, say, 9.50 and 10.10 on the night of June 20th – if he met anybody, and what he took to drink.”
    “It shall be done. Boyes – query pub.” Parker made another note. “Yes?”
    “Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district.”
    “Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the ’bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Selfridge’s in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too easy.”
    “A bottle is more likely than a paper,” went on Wimsey, ignoring him, “because I think the arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly.”
    Parker made no further protest, but noted down “Boyes – Doughty Street – query bottle,” and paused expectantly.
    “Yes?”
    “That’s all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes.”
    “Very well. I’ll do my best. And if you find out anything