The Poison Dart

The police had come and gone. They hadn't cleared away the body or the crime scene as yet.

Mr Patrick Wilson was much younger than Irene had thought. In his late thirties, he sported a lanky frame that somehow radiated strength even in death. His cold, hard eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.

"He must have given them a tough fight," Irene thought grimly.

She knelt and pulled his dressing gown apart, unbuttoning the soiled linen shirt the corpse was wearing underneath it. His reddened torso sported multiple bruises and contusions, besides patches of dried blood.

The table laid out with half-finished drinks for two indicated that he'd had a conversation with his killer before ...

...the fatal needle had plunged almost fully into the back of Wilson's neck. Irene pulled it out gingerly, taking care that the dripping blood didn't spill on her clothes. She examined the unusual weapon intently, before carefully putting it in an envelope and slipping this in her pocket.

The room bore other evidence of the struggle; there were depressions in the carpet, bloodstained cutlery scattered across the floor, glass shards from a shattered paperweight, a key ring marked "East India Railways" flung in the corner, a broken bracelet with a miniature cross dangling from it, a soiled handkerchief near Wilson's face.

As she stepped back from the body, Miss Lynne spoke up, "Did you find anything ma'am?" Her low voice was freighted with worry and fear.

She smiled reassuringly, "Don't call me ma'am, I'm Irene. Irene MacLachlan."

Irene paused thoughtfully, "Well, whoever did this to Mr Wilson had a good working knowledge of human anatomy. He struck only on the most vulnerable spots. And the weapon used was a modified surgical needle used to suture patients. So I think we're looking at a medical practitioner, perhaps a surgeon, something of that sort..."

She spoke up again as Irene turned to leave the study, "How are you so sure that it was a man? Could it have been a woman that did this?"

Irene smiled again, "Only a doctor would have known where to strike like that. And by law, women aren't allowed to study medicine yet."

"Oh, yes! I forgot about that."

Irene ignored her. She had had enough for one day. But Mrs Wilson barred the way to the front door before she could make an exit. Irene warily stepped back.

"I just wanted to thank you, Miss MacLachlan. This is a terrible tragedy but I'm sure that you can be trusted with getting to the bottom of it."

"Yes, I'll be going right now to work on it" sighed Irene.

She somehow got past Mrs Wilson and out into the freedom of the grey rain-washed London streets. Irene caught a hansom cab to her little apartment and tried vainly to go to sleep. The wind rattled the shutters and the man next door was playing a Bach composition on his gramophone. Even after both had ceased, worry and doubt kept her from dropping off.

Mrs Wilson was the most obvious suspect, standing to inherit her hotelier husband's considerable fortune. But that was just conjecture. The only solid piece of physical evidence was the needle. A quick chemical test in her tiny home laboratory revealed the sticky stuff on it was potassium sulphate – the four-second poison.

Mrs Wilson was being served a sumptuous late breakfast in bed when Irene arrived at the Wilson residence. Irene's stomach growled; her meagre breakfast had been just a cup of tea with a slice of toast.