Free Rehearsals for Murder by Elizabeth Ferrars

she’s got grasping tendencies,” said Toby, “but”—and he frowned at the empty glass in his hand and frowned then, as ferociously, across the room at the gracefully disposed figure of the young doctor—“which kind of grasping?”
    When Druna returned she looked round the room and, finding Toby where she had left him, once more sat down beside him. The little man had gone.
    There was a slight excitement in Druna’s manner and in her eyes the pleased look of one who has held, if only for ten minutes, unquestioned possession of the centre of a stage. She took a mirror out of her handbag and spent a moment reassuring herself that her make-up was still as it should be. To Toby’s “Well?” she made no immediate reply.
    But putting her mirror away once more she said: “The only thing they were really interested in was that stuff Lou was using for her cold—Breathynne. They wanted to know if she was conscientious about following the instructions—that’s to say, whether she used it more than every three or four hours. And then they wanted to know what time she used it last.”
    â€œAnd what time did she use it last?” said Toby.
    â€œAbout four o’clock. It was just before——” She stopped, and her gaze grew concentrated. Thoughtfully she added: “That’s rather queer, really.”
    Toby waited. But Druna suddenly got up, crossed the room and dropped into a chair beside Charlie Widdison. At once they were in earnest conversation. Toby lit a cigarette and glanced round at the other occupants of the room.
    Eve was standing by the open French window. She was standing very still, had been standing like that for some time. When she moved it would be with some violent release of her wrought-up nerves that now were holding her tensely quiet. There was no ease in her pose; the set of her shoulders was unnatural, the hand that clasped an empty glass was rigid.
    Listening to what Druna and Charlie were saying to one another, but standing at a slight distance from them and not joining in, was old Mr Fry. An odd little man, fussy and self-important, yet subdued. He might, in an eccentric and probably unrealistic fashion, be intelligent, or at least have been intelligent once. But it was not a strong face, and sensitivity is not enough to give an old face dignity. Toby’s eyes turned from him to the fair-haired, middle-aged woman whom he had heard addressed as Lisbeth Gask.
    Lisbeth Gask was knitting. A cigarette clung to her lips. She, too, was listening to Druna and Charlie and suddenly she interrupted something the young man was saying.
    â€œBut what is this brucine stuff, Charlie?”
    As Charlie answered Toby’s glance went on round the room. There were several people missing. Roger Clare, for one. Mrs Fry was upstairs putting Vanessa to bed. George was—where? Toby frowned. Someone else was missing too. There should be one more person at least.
    Charlie, in his hesitant, gentle, artificial manner was saying: “Well, you see, Lisbeth, that’s just the—extraordinary thing. Brucine isn’t the sort of stuff that the ordinary person knows about at all. I’m pretty hazy about it myself. I know it’s used for the—detection and estimation of—nitrates. But it’s more or less a fluke that I know even that. Still, I daresay it’d have about the same symptoms as strychnine, which is what I thought it was. It comes from the same plant——”
    â€œStrychnos nux-vomica,” broke in Mr Fry eagerly. “It produces a convulsive catching of the breath, then, very suddenly, paralytic seizures accompanied by violent trembling. At a later stage paralysis becomes more acute, accompanied by muscle rigor. The legs become stiffly outstretched, the back arched, the soles of the feet incurved, the——” He checked the flow of words. “Yes,” he said vaguely. He coughed.