The Corpse in Oozak's Pond by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

Bugginses were carrying out a suicide pact?”
    “Just when they were about to restore the descendants of Ichabod Buggins to their place in the sun and wallow in unwonted wealth?”
    “But what if they’d found out their claim was invalid and there wasn’t going to be any wealth?”
    “They still wouldn’t have been any worse off than they were before, would they?”
    “I don’t suppose so,” Helen conceded. “They’d stick Sephy and Purvis for the lawyer’s fee, no doubt. But it’s so…so Ethan Frome-ish, those two old souls in that wretched house, toddling off to their long winter’s nap with their tummies full of salt pork and white lightning and never waking up. Though I suppose it would have been worse for them if they had.”
    “The medical examiner thinks they probably never did because they’d been given such a massive dose. If they did, they’d have had awful bellyaches, which they’d no doubt have put down to Miss Mink’s cooking. Pretty soon they’d have felt drowsy again and passed out, and that would have been the end of them, unless they’d received immediate first aid.”
    “They wouldn’t have called the doctor. They’d have taken paregoric or castor oil or something and just got sicker. Peter, that’s diabolical.”
    “It’s that, all right. Oddly enough, carbon tetrachloride can cause irregular heartbeat and respiratory failure. Even if he’d seen them alive, that doctor of theirs might still have diagnosed pneumonia and heart failure and had what seemed like good reasons for doing so. Maybe this is hardly the time to ask, but would you like a drink?”
    “We’d better smell the cork first.” Helen tried a shaky laugh, but it didn’t come off. “Yes, I’ll have one. Then what are you going to do?”
    “Ottermole wants me to go out to First Fork with him right after supper, which I expect means roughly half an hour from now. He’ll hate missing Doctor Who, but since he got that pat on the back from the medical examiner, he’s all fired up about duty before pleasure.”
    “Provided you stand duty with him, I gather. There’s no point in my setting the dining-room table, then. I’d meant to put on the dog a bit tonight so you wouldn’t notice it’s just warmed-over stew.”
    “All the better second time around,” Shandy assured her. “And a damned sight better than potatoes fried in salt pork, though I’ve eaten enough of those in my time. Mother always kept salt pork in the icebox out at the farm. I remember watching my grandmother whacking off a piece to put in the bean pot on Saturday morning. And when she made fish hash, she’d try out a few slices in the big frying pan till they were nice and crispy, then crumble them in with the potatoes and onions and salt cod.”
    “I remember salt codfish. It came packed in little wooden boxes. I always wanted them for my doll’s clothes, but the fish smell would never come out.”
    “Those boxes were for the aristocracy. What we had was just a hunk of fish, dried hard as a board and salty as a cattle lick. Grandma had to soak it overnight, then parboil it awhile to get out enough salt to make the fish palatable and soften it enough to break into flakes. She’d throw in plenty of black pepper and a beaten egg, cover the skillet, and set it on the back of the stove till it got a good brown crust on the bottom. It wasn’t bad eating, with some homemade catsup to jazz it up a little.”
    “My mother used to cream the cod and serve it over boiled potatoes with hard-boiled eggs cut up in the sauce,” Helen recalled. “I have to admit, I’d try to switch the plates around so I’d get more egg than fish.”
    “That’s why you never grew any hair on your chest. Here you are, my love. Good for what ails you.”
    Shandy handed his wife her drink, knowing full well what ailed them both and why they were making small talk about codfish. “Were you planning to take another whack at the archives this evening?”
    “I’ll