She stared at him in utter dismay and then, without another word, turned and blundered out of the room.

Alleyn wrote the name “Harold Sage” in a minute notebook that he carried. Having done so, he stared at it with an air of incredulity, sighed, shut up his book and went to find Fox.

1 See A Man Lay Dead.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hyoscine

Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.

ON THE FOLLOWING afternoon, five days after his death, Derek O’Callaghan was buried with a great deal of pomp and ceremony. Alleyn was right about the funeral—there was no demonstration from the late Home Secretary’s obscure opponents, and the long procession streamed slowly down Whitehall without disturbance. Meanwhile the inquest had been resumed and concluded. After hearing the pathologist’s and the analyst’s report, the jury returned a verdict of murder against “a person or persons unknown.” Alleyn had had a few words in private with the pathologist before the inquest opened.

“Well,” said the great man, “there wasn’t much doubt about the hyoscine. The usual dose is a hundredth to a two-hundredth of a grain. My calculations, based on traces of hyoscine found in the organs, show that more than a quarter of a grain had been given. The minimum lethal dose would be something very much less.”

“I see,” said Alleyn slowly.

“Did you expect hyoscine, Alleyn?”

“It was on the tapis. I wish to heaven you hadn’t found it.”

“Yes. Unpleasant business.”

“Do they ever put hyoscine in patent medicines?”

“Oh, yes. Had Sir Derek taken patent medicines?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“The dosage would be too small to enter into the picture.”

“If he swallowed an entire packet?”

The pathologist shrugged his shoulders. “Would he take an entire packet?” Alleyn did not answer. “I can see you’ve got something in mind,” said the pathologist, who knew him.

“Sir John Phillips injected hyoscine. Suppose O’Callaghan had taken a patent medicine containing the drug?” Alleyn suggested.

“The average injection, as I have said, is about, say, a hundredth of a grain. The amount in patent medicines would be very much less. The two together, even if he had taken quantities of his rot-gut, could scarcely constitute a lethal dose—unless, of course, O’Callaghan had an idiosyncrasy for hyoscine, and even if there was an idiosyncrasy, it wouldn’t account for the amount we found. If you want my private opinion, for what it is worth, I consider the man was murdered.”

“Thank you for all the trouble you have taken,” said Alleyn glumly. “I shan’t wait to hear the verdict; it’s a foregone conclusion. Fox can grace the court for me. There’s one other point. Were you able to find the marks of the injections?”

“Yes.”

“How many were there?”

“Three.”

“Three. That tallies. Damn!”