“I am glad you have come, Mr. Blunt,” said Mary Chilcott. “This affair seems too terrible. Is there anything you want to know that I can tell you?”
“Where did the fig paste come from?”
“It is a special kind that comes from London. We often have it. No one suspected that this particular pot differed from any of the others. Personally I dislike the flavor of figs. That explains my immunity. I cannot understand how Dennis was affected, since he was out for tea. He must have picked up a sandwich when he came home, I suppose.”
Tommy felt Tuppence’s hand press his arm ever so slightly.
“What time did he come in?” he asked.
“I don’t really know. I could find out.”
“Thank you, Miss Chilcott. It doesn’t matter. You have no objection, I hope, to my questioning the servants?”
“Please do anything you like, Mr. Blunt. I am nearly distraught. Tell me—you don’t think there has been—foul play?”
Her eyes were very anxious as she put the question.
“I don’t know what to think. We shall soon know.”
“Yes, I suppose Dr. Burton will have the paste analysed.”
Quickly excusing herself, she went out by the window to speak to one of the gardeners.
“You take the housemaids, Tuppence,” said Tommy, “and I’ll find my way to the kitchen. I say, Miss Chilcott may feel very distraught, but she doesn’t look it.”