“My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.”

“In view of these letters? These two, or the others?”

“I do not know. I am inclined to regard the personal ones as being more important. They definitely threaten his life.”

“Yes. Very vindictive, they seem to be.”

“I wish to have an inquest.”

“I see,” said Fox. “Now that’s quite a serious matter, Lady O’Callaghan.”

A faint redness appeared in her cheeks. Another woman would possibly have screamed in his face.

“Of course it is serious,” she said.

“I mean, if you understand me, that before an order is made for an inquest, the coroner who makes it has to be certain of one or two points. What about the death certificate, for instance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, was one signed?”

“Yes.”

“By Sir John Phillips?”

“I don’t know. Possibly. Mr. Thoms, the assistant surgeon, may have signed it.”

“Yes. Well, now, Mr. Thoms is a well-known surgeon. Sir Derek was a distinguished patient. He would take every care before he signed. I think that would be considered sufficiently conclusive by the coroner.”

“But these threats! I am convinced he was murdered. I shall demand an inquest.”

Fox stared gravely into the fire.

“Perhaps,” he said, rather ponderously, “perhaps you would like me to ring up the coroner, and put the case before him.”

“Certainly, if you will.”

“It would be better if you could tell him, definitely, who signed the certificate.”

“Mr. Jameson, my husband’s secretary, may know. He had an appointment with the Prime Minister at three.”

Inspector Fox consulted a large, bland watch.

“It’s fifteen minutes to four.”

“I shall ring up the House,” she said, and did.

She got Ronald at last and asked her question.

“It was Mr. Thoms?” she said into the telephone. Ronald’s voice quacked audibly in the room. “Yes. Thank you. Have you discussed the matter? I see. No, I think not, Mr. Jameson; I am communicating directly with the police.”

She hung up the receiver and informed Fox that Thoms had signed the certificate.

Inspector Fox then rang up the coroner. He held a long and muffled conversation. The coroner talked a great deal and appeared to be agitated. Lady O’Callaghan listened. Her fingers drummed bonily on the arm of her chair. For her, it was a terrific gesture. At last Fox rang off.

“It’s as I thought,” he said. “He says he cannot interfere.”

“Then I shall go direct to the Prime Minister.”

He got rather ponderously to his feet.

“I don’t think I’d do that, Lady O’Callaghan—at least not yet. If you’ll allow me to I’d like to talk it over with my superior, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”