The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,62

to wake him, Cook would have left the kitchen to find out what was the matter.”

“She was outside,” the colonel recalled. “I remember noticing her when we were weighing the merits of attempting to retrieve poor Orris’s body.”

I thought that would bring a fresh sob from Earlene, but perhaps she’d begun to get over her loss. “And after that,” I said, “she wound up in the bar. So she was out of the kitchen for a while, and in her absence someone could have gone in and put anything at all into that pot of stew.”

Carolyn said, “Like what, Bern? Mrs. Murphy’s overalls?” Everyone stared at her and she said, “Like the song, ‘Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder?’ Oh, come on. I can’t be the only person who remembers that one.”

“Sure you can,” I said. “And as far as what the killer put in the stew, I couldn’t begin to guess. I don’t know much about poisons.”

“Mushrooms,” Miss Dinmont said. “Are there mushrooms in the stew?”

“I would certainly hope so,” Rufus Quilp said. “Who in his right mind would make a lamb stew without mushrooms?”

“Poisonous mushrooms,” Miss Dinmont cried. “Deadly nightshade!”

“That’s not a mushroom,” Gordon Wolpert said.

“It’s not?”

“No. But there are a lot of poisonous mushrooms, or toadstools, or whatever you want to call them. The amanitas are particularly deadly. One’s called the death angel—that may be what you were thinking of. But you couldn’t go out and gather mushrooms in this weather. It’s not the season for them, and even if it were you’d never find them under the snow.”

“If deadly nightshade isn’t a mushroom,” said Miss Dinmont, “then what in heaven’s name is it?”

“A vine,” Wolpert told her. “A close relative of the tomato and the potato. Not to mention the eggplant.”

“Why not mention the eggplant?”

“There’s tomato in here,” Rufus Quilp announced. “And potato, of course. And mushrooms and barley.” If there was an airborne poison as well, I figured his days were numbered, the way he was inhaling. “I don’t believe there’s any eggplant. It’s not usual in lamb stew, though it wouldn’t matter if there were some. I’m sure there’s nothing in here to be concerned about. Why would anyone poison a splendid pot of lamb stew?”

“Why would anyone kill the cook?” Carolyn asked him in return. “Or wreck the bridge and the snowblower? Or kill Mr. Rathburn?”

“I’m sure I have no idea, young lady. What I do have is a gnawing in my belly, and what I intend to have is a bowl of this stew.”

“But if it’s poisoned…”

“If it’s perfectly wholesome,” he said, “then we ought to be eating it. If it’s toxic we ought to keep it at arm’s length. But how are we to tell which it is?” No one had the answer, so he supplied it himself. “What’s required is a food taster. One man has a bowl of stew. If he lives, everyone may freely join in the feast. If he dies, well, at least the others are spared.” He squared his shoulders. “I shall be that man,” he said.

“But Mr. Quilp—”

“Please,” he said. “I insist.”

“But if you should die…”

“Then I suppose you’ll leave me lying where I fall, as seems to be the custom of the house. If you actually go so far as to put me in the ground, an appropriate phrase for the tombstone might be ‘He ate that others might live.’ Hand me down one of those bowls, will you? And the ladle, if you don’t mind.”

In the dining room, Quilp took a seat at a table set for two. He tucked in his napkin and lifted a fork. “‘It is a far, far better thing that I do,’” he said, “‘than I have ever done,’ and I fear that’s all I remember of that passage. I’d say grace, but if the stew turns out to be laced with arsenic, that might be a thumb in the eye for the Man Upstairs. So without further ado…”

He speared a morsel with his fork, put it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. He took another bite, smacked his lips.

“There,” he said with satisfaction. “As you can see—”

He broke off the sentence and a look of alarm spread on his florid face. The hand not clutching his fork moved to the middle of his chest, just over his heart. His lower lip trembled and he slumped in his chair.

Why hadn’t I stopped him? How could I let the man kill himself like this? Oh, in a sense