Roger whistled. “Aconitine, was it? By Jove! That explains the rapidity, of course. But it’s not exactly a common one, by any means. Lamson’s specialty, eh? I wonder how Meadows got hold of it.”
“Exactly,” agreed the inspector laconically.
“Aconitine!” observed Roger in deep thought. “Well, well! Of course one of the merits of aconitine is the smallness of the fatal dose. Somewhere about one-tenth of a grain, or less, isn’t it? But that doesn’t usually kill for three or four hours. This must have been a good deal more than a fatal dose to work so quickly.”
“It was. At least a grain, Sir Henry reckons.”
“Yes, probably all that. Always the way with the lay suicide, of course, to give himself about ten times as much as he needs. You know that better than I do, no doubt. But aconitine’s about the last thing I was expecting, I must say. I should have put my money on arsenic, or strychnine, or even prussic acid; something more easily procurable than aconitine, at any rate.”
“The symptoms showed it couldn’t be any of those three.”
“Yes, that’s right; they did, of course. Still aconitine is a bit unexpected. Weren’t you surprised?”
“I’m never surprised at anything, sir.”
“Aren’t you really? Blasé fellow! I am, and aconitine is one of the agents. I wonder how he did manage to get hold of it. Forged a medical prescription, I suppose. Have you any idea how he took it? In his breakfast coffee, or something like that?”
“Sir Henry found no trace of it in any of the breakfast things.”