“Is it?” said Miss Crowley. She was still holding Phyllida’s champagne glass, but it was now, perhaps not surprisingly, empty. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, and I’ve been researching poisons for years.”

“Mrs. Mallowan worked in the dispensary during the war and has been certified as an apothecary’s assistant,” said Mr. Max firmly, his voice carrying. “She is extremely well versed in the characteristics and identification of any number of poisons, which is why she employs them quite often in her work.”

His tone indicated he wasn’t making a joke, and there were no chuckles, only the nodding of heads. However, only a very few people in their household knew that one of the Poirot stories his wife was currently working on utilized nicotine as the murder weapon—which was why Phyllida had been so arrested by the scent of tobacco in the dead man’s drink. There had been many discussions at Mallowan Hall about the efficacy and convenience of nicotine as a poison, how it worked, where to obtain it, and what symptoms it produced. It was a speedy killer, and usually attacked the lungs and heart, paralyzing the respiratory muscles and causing heart irregularities.

Phyllida noticed that Mr. Berkeley and Mr. Genevan were suspiciously eyeing the cigarettes they’d been smoking, while Mr. Chesterton continued to puff away on his cigar, unconcerned. Perhaps he assumed that, at his relatively advanced age, it didn’t matter.

As Phyllida watched, Mr. Genevan frowned, then dropped his smoke and smushed the butt into the ground with his heel. His dark skin had acquired a decidedly greenish tint.

“Nicotine in high, unadulterated quantities is an extremely effective and speedy poison,” said Agatha with a ring of authority. “My assessment will, of course, be contingent upon confirmation from the authorities. But I can think of no other explanation for the strong smell of tobacco in Father Tooley’s drink and his subsequent—er—demise.”

Just then, the sound of new arrivals had everyone turning toward the gate leading into the courtyard. Presumably, someone had had the wherewithal to telephone the authorities. Phyllida didn’t spare a moment of regret that she hadn’t seen to it herself; apparently, she’d had the murder weapon to attend to.

She recognized Constable Greensticks from the unpleasantries a few months ago up at Mallowan Hall. He had a pompous air about him, and despite his name, he wasn’t at all “green” in his role as constable. However, Phyllida couldn’t say whether he was actually efficient at his job, for evidence from her previous interactions with him hadn’t suggested a high level of competency.