He had given, Wexford thought, rather a long explanation for which he hadn’t been asked. But it could be that these thoughts, defensive yet self-reproachful, were at the moment uppermost in his mind. ‘Mr Kingman,’ he said, ‘we have reason to believe, as you know, that foul play may have been involved here. I should like to ask you a few questions about a meal you cooked on October 29th, after which your wife was ill.’

‘I can guess who’s been telling you about that.’

Wexford took no notice. ‘When did Miss Last bring you these – er, shaggy caps?’

‘On the evening of the 28th. I made the stew from them in the morning, according to Miss Last’s own recipe.’

‘Was there any other type of fungus in the flat at the time?’

‘Mushrooms, probably.’

‘Did you at any time add any noxious object or substance to that stew, Mr Kingman?’

Kingman said quietly, wearily. ‘Of course not. My brother-in-law has a lot of ignorant prejudices. He refuses to understand that that stew, which I have made dozens of times before in exactly the same way, was as wholesome as, say, a chicken casserole. More wholesome, in my view.’

‘Very well. Nevertheless, your wife was very ill. Why didn’t you call a doctor?’

‘Because my wife was not “very” ill. She had pains and diarrhoea, that’s all. Perhaps you aren’t aware of what the symptoms of fungus poisoning are. The victim doesn’t just have pain and sickness. His vision is impaired, he very likely blacks out or has convulsions of the kind associated with tetanus. There was nothing like that with Hannah.’

‘It was unfortunate that you rinsed those plates. Had you not done so and called a doctor, the remains of that stew would almost certainly have been sent for analysis, and if it was harmless as you say, all this investigation could have been avoided.’

‘It was harmless,’ Kingman said stonily.

Out in the car Wexford said, ‘I’m inclined to believe him, Mike. And unless Hood or Corinne Last has something really positive to tell us, I’d let it rest. Shall we go and see her next?’

The cottage Corinne had shared with Axel Kingman was on a lonely stretch of road outside the village of Myfleet. It was a stone cottage with a slate roof, surrounded by a well-tended pretty garden. A green Ford Escort stood on the drive in front of a weatherboard garage. Under a big old apple tree, from which the yellow leaves were falling, the shaggy caps, immediately recognisable, grew in three thick clumps.

She was a tall woman, the owner of this house, with a beautiful, square-jawed, high-cheekboned face and a mass of dark hair. Wexford was at once reminded of the Klimt painting of a languorous red-lipped woman, gold-neckleted, half covered in gold draperies, though Corinne Last wore a sweater and a denim smock. Her voice was low and measured. He had the impression she could never be flustered or caught off her guard.