the foot of the bed. Eric put the container down on my bedroom’s bureau and went quickly to the bag, shoving me out of the way. He searched through the zippered pocket where he’d left the pens, then turned toward me, panic in his eyes, and the redness of his skin now rising. One hand was now scratching at his neck. “You didn’t bring them?” I asked in a raised, panicky-sounding voice.
“Yes,” he said, and I could barely make out the word. It sounded as though it was coming from a great distance, the shout of a man trapped far underground in a narrow damp cave.
Eric dumped the contents of his suitcase on the bed, then began rapidly searching through them. He sat down, his body held rigidly, his lips pursed as he tried to pull air into his lungs. I began to help him sort through his clothes and toiletries but he grabbed my arm, mimed the action of making a phone call. “You want me to call for help?” I asked.
He nodded. The redness around his neck and throat had puffed out alarmingly, like landmasses on a topographical map. But his face stayed pale, now taking on a bluish tinge. I ran into the adjoining room, picked up the phone, and stood for a moment, just listening to what was happening in the bedroom. I heard another zipper being opened, then a soft thwumping sound. I put the receiver gently back onto its handset, slowly counted to ten, then walked to the doorway, peered toward the bed. Eric was laid out, one hand still at his neck, but he was no longer scratching at it. His hand was just lying there, still. I watched him for long enough to know that he wasn’t breathing, then, just to make sure, I waited a minute, then crossed the room and placed two fingers along his throat and felt for a pulse. There was none. I went back to the phone and dialed 999, gave my name and address, told the woman with the chirpy voice on the other end that my boyfriend was in anaphylactic shock.
After making the phone call I moved quickly. I took the few whole cashews from the paper towel in the refrigerator and put some in the chicken korma that was still in Eric’s bowl (and still warm from the microwave) and some in the take-out container. Then I flushed the paper towel and washed my hands. In the bedroom, Eric hadn’t moved. I slid my hand beneath the mattress and pulled out the plastic Baggie with the two unused EpiPens. Eric’s belongings were spread around the room. I wiped my prints off the Baggie with a pair of socks, then pushed the entire thing into one of his running sneakers. It seemed like a place where someone might keep emergency medicine. Eric never would have, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that. And he wouldn’t tell anyone that I had said the chicken korma didn’t have nuts in it. I would tell them that he was drunk, and that he must have just decided to eat the chicken anyway, and I was in the bedroom, and then we couldn’t find the EpiPens. I tried to think if there was anything else I needed to do to set the scene. I thought it might look good if I pressed on Eric’s chest a few times, just to make it look as though I had tried CPR. Would a coroner be able to tell that sort of thing? I was about to start when the buzzer sounded again.
I ran up the stairs to let the medics in.
Three days later, after Eric’s family had been notified, and arrangements had been made to have the body shipped home, the constable who had arrived after the medics that Friday night came to my door to tell me that there would be no inquest.
I was pleased, of course, but surprised. I had read so many English mysteries that I just assumed that any slightly unusual death would result in an inquest, one in which all the evidence would point toward an accidental and tragic death. In a small way, I was disappointed.
“Okay,” I said, making my face look confused. “What does that mean?”
“Just means the coroner deemed the death accidental and doesn’t see the need for further review. It’s the right decision, I’d say, although an official inquest might have called into question the Bottle and Glass and that pub challenge of