Sandilands took over. ‘Aided in his consumption by the copious amounts poured out for him by Fanshawe here. What exactly were you hoping to achieve by that, Fanshawe?’
‘I thought I’d achieved my end, sir.’ Fanshawe’s tone was truculent and resentful. ‘I was trying to incapacitate the ghastly fellow. He tried several times to reveal secrets he ought never to have been in possession of. You heard him. Miss Wentworth may have branded him an impostor — whatever she means by that Boy’s Own Paper designation — but he showed a certain depth of knowledge of our services’ operations. Showing off for the prince, of course, but there were other receptive ears in the neighbourhood. It seemed the only way of silencing him. No one believes a word uttered by a man in his cups. Rendering the subject harmless, sir, that’s what I was doing. As no one else seemed about to take it upon himself,’ he added rebelliously. ‘It was hardly believable, the gross behaviour the man exhibited, but he caught sight of Miss Wentworth’s full plate — she had to my notice not attempted so much as a forkful — and began to dig in. He clearly couldn’t resist the red caviar — he started with that.’
Inspector Chappel grimaced. ‘Well, they say that Rasputin of theirs had the table manners of a hog and the appetite of a brown bear. Must be the cold winters that do it.’
‘Not immediately, but several forkfuls later, in mid-sentence, mouth still full of food, he keeled over.’ Rupert pushed on with his account. ‘Choking, red in the face, unable to breathe, clutching his heart. All the symptoms of a heart attack or cyanide poisoning.’
‘And I can confirm the latter. In attempting to resuscitate him, I’m sure I detected a strong scent of almonds on his breath,’ Sandilands said.
‘Sir, one of the dishes — the fricassee of Persian lamb — had almonds amongst its ingredients,’ Lily offered.
‘As well as all the spices of the orient. As good a way as any of disguising the scent of cyanide. I took some of that dish myself. Like many others now snoring peacefully in their beds,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘So — by mistakenly eating from Miss Wentworth’s plate, the Serbian signed his death warrant.’
‘Er … No chance, I suppose, that anyone would be targeting Miss Wentworth herself?’ Chappel asked sheepishly. ‘I know, I know — it sounds ridiculous, but training makes me bring it forward. Purposes of elimination and all that … clear out the underbrush. She was the one who was handed the poisoned plate, after all. Got to consider it!’
‘A reasonable thought, Chappel …’ Rupert Fanshawe allowed, ‘if we must plod every tedious inch of the pedestrian way to the truth. But — and this will come as a surprise to you fellows — Miss Wentworth was not, in fact, the one who was handed the poisoned plate.’
He waited for the astonished stares then carried on, his voice purring with anticipation: ‘And, as long as the spot-light’s on the constable, may I suggest we follow up with a further reasonable thought? We should remind ourselves that what we are seeking in all this is a malign female presence. An unknown woman on assassination bent. Our Morrigan.’ He turned a sweet smile on Lily. ‘Now, Miss Wentworth was the woman closest to the Prince of Wales from beginning to abrupt end and she had continuous access to him. We, gentlemen, had placed our prince in the hands of a stranger for the whole evening. A stranger to him … a stranger to us. Can any one of us claim to know who she is? Where she comes from? Who precisely stands as her guarantor? Oh, I am much to blame. I should have taken immediate action.’ He shook his head to underline his self-recrimination. ‘If only I had acted in accordance with my training and arrested Miss Wentworth the moment it became clear that her behaviour at the buffet was suspicious, we could have avoided a murder.’