The gate to the Exner estate was open. Livingston turned into the oval driveway and parked in front of the manor house. He felt his senses quickening as he rang the bell. Nearly forty-eight hours ago he had come here to interrogate the classmates of the murdered Athena Popolous. Lady Exner’s companion, Penelope Atwater, had not known Athena Popolous, but around the time of his visit an attempt had been made to poison her. Why? Was there a connection between the two crimes and, if so, what could it possibly be?

The maid answered the door. Livingston remembered her name as he stepped into the foyer. Emma Home. Rapidly he reviewed the information he had taken from her on Saturday. She worked afternoons at Llewellyn Hall and had done so for the past dozen years. Her aunt had been Sir Gilbert’s housekeeper and later stayed on with Lady Exner until her retirement. That was when Emma Home had taken over. Studying the woman’s bone-thin face, Livingston detected a trace of wry humor in her expression. He decided that before he left, a trip to the kitchen for a chat with her would be in order.

At his inquiry, Emma told him that Professor Whit-comb and Miss Twyler were on the back porch and were expecting him.

The porch, like everything in the house, was in need of painting. The furniture consisted of an aging glider and matching rockers with a rickety round glass table cluttered with stacks of newspapers. Val Twyler was leaning back in the glider, one pointed toe pushing on the floor causing it to sway uncertainly. She was wearing a khaki skirt and matching blouse, which somehow made Livingston think of a prim Girl Guide. Another organization his daughter refused to join. Her smile when she greeted him was polite rather than warm.

On the other hand, Philip Whitcomb was visibly distressed. His sandy hair had a disheveled look, as though he had forgotten to comb it that morning. The knees of his light blue cotton trousers had traces of dirt, suggesting that he had been gardening. With his tongue he kept moistening the lips of his even-featured bland face.

“I say, Inspector, I’m appalled.”

Livingston waited.

“Penelope rang from hospital after you left her. Surely the laboratory is mistaken. You can’t seriously believe that someone tried to poison that woman. She’s constantly experiencing stomach ailments.”

“Not of this magnitude,” Livingston said quietly.

“But for what possible reason?” Twyler’s voice sounded disdainful. “It simply doesn’t make sense.”

“Apparently not,” Livingston agreed, “which is why, if there is a simple answer, I’d like to find it. Since no one else became ill after eating the ...” He hesitated.

“Tasty pasties,” Philip said helpfully.