Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) by Emily Brightwell Page B

fairly sure this would be where you’d look for me. You’re here about Stephen Whitfield.”
    “I am. Was it poison?”
    “It was. He had enough foxglove in his stomach to kill an elephant. That’s one of the reasons that death occurred so rapidly—he ingested a massive dose,” he replied. “Luckily, as the postmortem was done so quickly, the contents of the stomach were still fresh, and I found an enormous amount of crushed leaves.”
    “And you’re certain it was foxglove?” she asked. She wanted to be sure about this fact. Foxglove was a poison anyone would be able to obtain. It grew all over the countryside, especially in the woodlands. If Whitfield had died of some other kind of poison, it might limit the number of people who could reasonably acquire a large enough supply to kill someone.
    “I’m sure.” He smiled. “I’ve seen it before.”
    “And it was in the Bordeaux?”
    He nodded. “Correct.”
    “You had the wine tested?”
    “I didn’t need to have it tested. I simply poured a bit out, and the foxglove was floating in the wine as clear as day. It’s a wonder no one noticed the leaves in the liquid. They were certainly big enough to be seen.”
    She thought about that for a moment. “That is very odd. If the leaves were that visible, the killer was taking a terrible risk. If Whitfield had noticed them, he probably wouldn’t have drunk the wine.”
    “Perhaps.” Bosworth shrugged. “But perhaps not. The bottle itself is a very dark color, so the leaves couldn’t have been seen unless one held it up to a lamp or took it out in strong sunlight for a good look.”
    “But once the wine was poured into a glass, the leaves should have been spotted,” she argued.
    “Only if the person drinking the wine bothered to look.” Bosworth leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Jeffries, there are a number of people who are . . . Well, I’m not sure how to put it, but their need for alcoholic beverages is so great, they simply pour down their throats whatever is handed to them. Stephen Whitfield might have been one of those people.”
    “You mean an alcoholic?” Mrs. Jeffries had heard the word before but wasn’t precisely sure this was the correct context. “But aren’t those simply people who lie about in gin palaces and end up in the streets?”
    “That’s generally what happens if you’re poor. If you’ve money, you can avoid ending up in those circumstances,” he said. “Take my word for it—it’s not just the poor that suffer from this affliction. There are just as many of the wealthy who have the same compulsion to drink; they simply have the means to hide it better. I’m not saying that this has anything to do with Whitfield’s murder. I am saying that a craving for alcohol could be the reason he didn’t bother to so much as glance at the contents of his cup.”
    “I see.” She nodded in understanding. “Dr. Bosworth, wouldn’t a massive dose like that have changed the taste of the wine?”
    “Of course it would, but as we just noted, if he was a person with a craving for alcohol, he wouldn’t have cared what it tasted like. He’d have been concerned only with getting it down his throat.”
    “But what if he wasn’t one of those sort of people, one of those alcoholics? What if he had no craving? Wouldn’t he have noticed that the wine tasted peculiar?”
    Bosworth thought for a moment before he spoke. “He certainly should have noticed—unless, of course, he had a limited sense of taste. That could well be the case. He wasn’t a young man.”
    “I’m not young, either, but I can tell if something tastes odd.”
    “Can you?” He grinned. “Remember, the man was drinking a full-bodied French red wine, which has a strong flavor in and of itself. He may well have thought it was supposed to taste as it did, or he might not have had any sense of taste at all. I’ve half a dozen patients who can’t taste food or drink. It’s quite a common