Free Hildegarde Withers Makes the Scene by Stuart Palmer Page A

there was, just barely detectable, the same scent that had bugged Miss Withers’ memory before. A common scent that she should recognize. The scent of death and what else? Miss Withers carefully replaced the stopper. On the chest beside the decanter were two glasses. One of the glasses had been drunk from. The nutty odor of the sherry lingered in it. Captain Westering, waiting for the return of Lenore, had clearly helped himself to a glass while waiting. Too bad for Captain Westering. The sherry had surely killed him.
    “You,” said Miss Withers, “are a very lucky young lady.”
    “Lucky?”
    “Indeed. The poison, whatever it is, is in the sherry. Does that suggest anything to you?”
    Lenore was silent, her breath caught in her throat, and Miss Withers, watching her intently, was forced to give her points. Within that almost fragile loveliness was surely a stout heart. A pulse throbbed in her throat, and her dark eyes flared. Otherwise, she showed no sign of shock.
    “Who would want to kill me?”
    “That’s a very good question. I suggest that you think about it seriously.”
    “It isn’t necessary to think about it at all. I’ve only known these people about a week. A day or two longer. Just since I got here.”
    “I could name a few murderers, my dear, who were complete strangers to their victims. Did Captain Westering make a practice of inviting you into his cabin for sherry?”
    “I told you. We discussed the voyage. While I was here I usually had a glass of sherry.”
    “From this decanter?”
    “Yes. As I said, Captain Westering kept it especially for me.
    “Did he ever have a drink from the same decanter?”
    “I don’t recall that he did. He drank something else. Scotch, I think. He made fun of me a little because of the sherry. Because I couldn’t drink stronger liquors, I mean.”
    “It’s not, I should say, a particularly regrettable deficiency. Never mind that, though. You can surely see that the poison, having been put into the decanter, must have been intended for you.”
    “How do you know it was put into the decanter?”
    “My senses are still quite good, young lady, including my sense of smell. The poison is in the decanter. You may be certain of that.”
    “What kind of poison?”
    “I’m not positive. I can’t quite identify the odor.”
    “Then how do you know it’s poison?”
    Miss Withers had been warned that Lenore Gregory was a headstrong young lady. She was now more than prepared to believe it. Resisting an impulse to shake the girl until her teeth rattled, she answered with a crisp tone of authority, very much as she had used to address an obstreperous small fry back in her days as a schoolma’am.
    “I don’t intend to discuss the matter now. You’ll see for yourself in good time. You don’t seem to understand, young lady, that I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that your position is perilous? I think someone has tried to kill you, and he has only failed by the merest chance. That, however, may not be the position of the police. I’ve had considerable experience with the police in cases like this, and I’ve observed that they invariably have a powerful penchant for the obvious. I stepped into this stateroom and found you bending over the body of a murdered man. Their first assumption will be that I surprised you in the act of murder.”
    “That’s insane. Absolutely crazy. I admired Captain Westering. Why should I kill him and ruin all our plans?”
    “We’ll get to those plans later. For the moment, I wonder if it would be indelicate to ask just what expression your admiration took?”
    “If you’re asking if we were lovers, we were not.” And lifting her head in a little gesture of pride that struck Miss Withers as being somehow pathetic, she added defiantly, “Not yet, anyhow.”
    “I’ve no doubt that Captain Westering was a romantic and persuasive man,” Miss Withers said drily. “And you, my dear, are a lovely and impulsive girl. A