‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Making shaggy cap stew. My theory is that the stew is harmless when eaten by non-drinkers, and toxic, or toxic to some extent, when taken by those with alcohol in the stomach. How about that? In a minute, when this lot’s cooking, I’m going to take a moderate quantity of alcohol, then I’m going to eat the stew. Now say I’m a damned fool if you like.’

Wexford shrugged. He grinned. ‘I’m overcome by so much courage and selfless devotion to the duty you owe the taxpayers. But wait a minute. Are you sure only Hannah had been drinking that night? We know Kingman hadn’t. What about the other two?’

‘I asked Hood that when you were off in your daydream. He called for Corinne Last at six, at her request. They picked some apples for his mother, then she made him coffee. He did suggest they call in at a pub for a drink on their way to the Kingmans’, but apparently she took so long getting ready that they didn’t have time.’

‘OK. Go ahead then. But wouldn’t it be easier to call in an expert? There must be such people. Very likely someone holds a chair of fungology or whatever it’s called at the University of the South.’

‘Very likely. We can do that after I’ve tried it. I want to know for sure now. Are you willing too?’

‘Certainly not. I’m not your guest to that extent. Since I’ve told my wife I won’t be home for dinner, I’ll take it as a kindness if you’ll make me some innocent scrambled eggs.’

He followed Burden into the living room where the inspector opened a door in the sideboard. ‘What’ll you drink?’

‘White wine, if you’ve got any, or vermouth if you haven’t. You know how abstemious I have to be.’

Burden poured vermouth and soda. ‘Ice?’

‘No, thanks. What are you going to have? Brandy? That was Hannah Kingman’s favourite tipple apparently.’

‘Haven’t got any,’ said Burden. ‘It’ll have to be whisky. I think we can reckon she had two double brandies before that meal, don’t you? I’m not so brave I want to be as ill as she was.’ He caught Wexford’s eye. ‘You don’t think some people could be more sensitive to it than others, do you?’

‘Bound to be,’ said Wexford breezily. ‘Cheers!’

Burden sipped his heavily watered whisky, then tossed it down. ‘I’ll just have a look at my stew. You sit down. Put the television on.’

Wexford obeyed him. The big coloured picture was of a wood in autumn, pale blue sky, golden beech leaves. Then the camera closed in on a cluster of red-and-white-spotted fly agaric. Chuckling, Wexford turned it off as Burden put his head round the door.

‘I think it’s more or less ready.’

‘Better have another whisky.’

‘I suppose I had.’ Burden came in and re-filled his glass. ‘That ought to do it.’

‘What about my eggs?’

‘Oh, God, I forgot. I’m not much of a cook, you know. Don’t know how women manage to get a whole lot of different things brewing and make them synchronize.’