“Well, some obscure heart trouble——” Lomas protested.
“He was in the pink. He never used doctors. You heard them say so. He hadn’t even been to an oculist.”
“A fellow doesn’t always know,” Lomas urged. “There are all sorts of heart weakness.”
“Not this sort.” Reggie shook his head. “And the eyes. Did you see how those two were afraid of his eyes? Your eyes won’t look like that when you die of heart failure. They might if an oculist had put belladonna in ’em to examine you. But there was no oculist. Dilated pupils, foam at the mouth, cold flesh. He was poisoned. It might have been aconitine. But aconitine don’t kill so quick or quite so quiet.”
“What is aconitine?”
“Oh, wolf-bane. Blue-rocket. You can get it from other plants. Only this is too quick. It slew him like prussic acid and much more peacefully. Some alkaloid poison of the aconite family, possibly unclassified. Probably it was put into him by that fresh puncture in his hand while he was packed in the crowd, just a scratch, just a jab with a hollow needle. An easy murder if you could trust your stuff. And when we do the post-mortem we’ll find that everything points to death by a poison we can’t trace.”
“Thanks, so much,” said Lomas. “It is for this we employ experts.”
“Well, the police also must earn their bread. Who is he?”
“He was the great authority on the Middle East. Old Indian civilian long retired. Lately political adviser to the Government of Media. You know all that.”
“Yes. Who wanted him dead?” said Reggie.