Markfield nodded his assent, but qualified it in words:
“That's a rough figure, remember.”
“Of course,” Sir Clinton agreed. “As a matter of fact, the multiple I had in my mind was 15. I suppose it's quite possible that some of the stuff escaped you and that your figure is an under-estimate?”
“Quite likely,” Markfield admitted frankly. “I gave you the lowest figure, naturally—a figure I could swear to if it came to the point. As it's a legal case, it's safer to be under than over the mark. But quite probably, as you say, I didn't manage to isolate all the stuff that was really present; and I wouldn't deny that the quantity in the body may have run up to ten milligrammes or even slightly over it.”
“Well, it's perhaps hardly worth bothering about,” the Chief Constable concluded. “The main thing is that even at the lowest estimate she must have swallowed enough of the poison to kill her in a reasonably short time.”
With this he seemed satisfied, and after a few questions about the preparation and submission of Markfield's official report, he took his leave. As he turned away, however, a fresh thought seemed to strike him.
“By the way, Dr. Markfield, do you know if Miss Hailsham's here this morning?”
“I believe so,” Markfield answered. “I saw her as I came in.”
“I'd like to have a few words with her,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“Officially?” Markfield demanded. “You're not going to worry the girl, are you? If it's anything I can tell you about, I'd be only too glad, you know. It's not very nice for a girl to have the tale going round that she's been hauled in by the police in a murder case.”