Barbara Cleverly - The Damascened Blade

‘And very good it was too, Abdullah,’ Betty interrupted. ‘I meant to congratulate you on it.’

A messenger was sent to the kitchens to hunt for any vestige of the suspect bird while Abdullah treated them to a list of every ingredient in the pheasant dish and the manner of concocting the sauce.

‘You say you tasted the sauce, Abdullah,’ Joe confirmed, ‘but I wonder if you actually ate any of the meat from the bird?’

‘Ah, no, sir. The bird, wonderful specimen though it was,’ said Abdullah with a polite bow to Lily, ‘was very largely unusable. Such was the accuracy of the marksmanship which laid it low, there was little undamaged flesh on the carcass which I could put into my dish. You will understand, sirs, ladies, that with wild game birds such as the golden pheasant only the breast meat is usually cooked, the remainder being too tough to be pleasant eating. And even the breast meat requires long and careful cooking which is why it was later than the other dishes in being brought to table.’

News was brought from the kitchens that the pheasant dish and the carcass had both been disposed of. ‘Thought as much,’ said James. ‘Abdullah keeps his staff up to the mark and their cleanliness and efficiency are legendary. Hot climate, you know – can’t take chances.’

Grace, who had been listening intently to all that was said, now interrupted, her fluttering hands revealing her agitation. ‘James! Iskander! This has nothing to do with kitchen management. I think I understand what’s happened. It should have occurred to me earlier! How could I have missed this? Well, I know how I could have missed it – it’s jolly unusual! Quite extraordinary! Fascinating in fact! I’ve known about it for years but I never thought I’d see a case! Oh, I’m sorry, Iskander – I’m letting my professional curiosity and surprise run away with me. Let me say again, I’m very conscious that we’re discussing the tragic death of your friend but I think you – we all – will be gratified and relieved to hear that there is no mystery here. I think it very likely that Zeman died of andromedotoxin!’

Seeing puzzled faces all around, Grace went on eagerly, ‘Andromedotoxin! It’s very rare. I’ve never seen an example before though I’ve heard and read of it. Tell me, Iskander – you would know – does a plant called the mountain laurel grow in these parts?’

Iskander listened to her description of the mountain laurel and nodded, giving the Pushtu name for the plant. James also murmured in agreement.

‘There! We have it then! The pheasant, partridge too, I believe, has the habit of feeding on mountain laurel which produces high levels of the poison andromedotoxin in its flesh. Anyone eating the pheasant will be, unawares, ingesting the poison.’

‘What are the symptoms of this poison, Grace?’ asked Joe.

‘Nausea, vomiting, dizziness and loss of balance.’

There was silence as all absorbed the evidence and finally Joe spoke, catching the eye of everyone at the gathering. ‘Would anyone, then, be inclined to disagree with the verdict, if this were a coroner’s court, of accidental death due to food poisoning occasioned by the consumption of an infected bird?’ Joe summed up.

Everyone looked at everyone else and all looked finally at Iskander. With dignity and taking his time, ‘On the evidence we have,’ he said carefully, ‘I think that is the conclusion we would all reach. A desperately sad occurrence but in no way sinister, an occurrence which none of us could have foreseen or prevented which took the life of my dear kinsman Zeman and very nearly the life of the Commandant’s wife.’ He turned to Betty and bowed graciously. ‘We must praise Allah that Mrs Lindsay survived and, indeed, that not more of us died.’

Everyone was nodding and murmuring in agreement and looking forward to escaping from the threatening atmosphere of the enquiry when there was a sudden commotion outside and a havildar stepped into the room. He addressed James who, puzzled and concerned, translated for the rest of the company. ‘We have at the door the poultryman, Achmed. He insists on presenting himself to the Commandant to give information. Shall we…?’

‘Oh, good Lord, whatever next?’ spluttered Burroughs in exasperation. ‘Does your laundryman have a view? Are we to hear the beekeeper’s suspicions?’

‘Send him in,’ said James firmly.

An agitated Achmed, flushed and quivering with excitement and in his dirty working clothes, had obviously run straight in from the farm. On receiving a nod from James he started his story in a flood of Pushtu. Stopping him for a moment after the first few sentences to translate, James’s face grew grim.

‘What’s he saying?’ Lily spoke for them all.

‘He’s telling us that the pheasant was poisoned. Arsenic. He’s saying it was arsenic.’

The Afghanis, who had followed every word, became even more alert at the mention of poison and began to exchange looks. Arsenic was well known to the Afghani aristocracy. ‘Inheritance powder’ was how they referred to it colloquially and its regular use kept a phalanx of food tasters in constant employ at the palace.

‘Go on, Achmed, finish your story,’ said James and the man, not at all overcome to find himself the centre of such concentrated attention, launched into the next part of his account. A dramatic raconteur, as with all his countrymen, he made the most of his evidence. James heard him all the way through to the end before translating.

‘Well, that would seem to put the tin hat on it!’ he said. ‘Achmed and his assistant have been troubled for some weeks now by these blasted pheasants who have been attacking our prize Leghorns. There’s a ban on shooting within the precincts of the fort and they came up with the idea of laying out doses of poison hidden in kitchen scraps. The poison comes in the form of rat poison: government supplies, control of rodents for the purpose of. Apparently their schemes have been unrewarded – plenty of dead rats but the pheasants appeared to flourish. Two days ago, determined to get the better of the pests, his assistant put out ten times the usual dose.’

Again there was silence as all took in the new information.

‘I would guess that Lily got him minutes before the poison did.’

‘If this has been going on for weeks without killing the bird (or birds),’ said Grace, ‘there will have been a buildup of arsenic in the bird’s tissues, culminating in a massive last dose. Oh, dear! Andromedotoxin? Arsenic? Which one? Without the necessary laboratory facilities we may never be able to establish which poison killed him. But the effect would have been the same.’

The Afghanis were nodding their heads in understanding and acceptance of this last piece of evidence delivered with such emotion and regret by Achmed. Lily also was looking utterly distraught, turning her eyes constantly to Iskander who avoided her gaze.

‘It’s not Achmed’s fault! Please don’t blame anyone but me. I think I should apologize to everyone,’ she said finally, unable to contain her grief and guilt a moment longer. ‘If only I hadn’t shot the wretched thing! Oh, why did I have to show off!’

Iskander was the only one in a position to offer any consolation and he hurried to do this, his voice grave and gentle. ‘Never forget, Miss Coblenz,’ he said, ‘that it was Zeman himself who encouraged, indeed who challenged, you to make the shot. It is the will of Allah and that is all there is to be said.’

‘And, indeed,’ said Grace kindly, ‘Zeman helped himself to the dish. As did Betty. He ate a larger portion than she did and this accounts for the faster onset of the attack and its greater severity, amounting to fatality’