Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 1. Whole No. 785, January 2007

Then she saw the board for Blackberry Farm fixed to a drystone wall. Drove into the yard and sounded the horn. She’d need help getting Melchior down. It would be useful if he had a couple of hefty sons.

From one of the farm buildings came a wisp of a woman wearing overalls and wellies. She was about Melchior’s age, Laura judged. Two sheepdogs came with her, barking.

“I’ve brought the farmer home,” Laura said, competing to be heard. “He’s rather tired. Is there anyone who can help get him down?”

The little lady spread her hands. “There’s only me, my love.”

Laura got out and opened the passenger door. “We’ll have to manage together, then. Is he your husband?”

“Yes, and I don’t like the look of ‘un,” the little lady said. “Douglas, you gawpus, what’s the matter with ‘ee?”

Laura looked. Her passenger had taken a definite turn for the worse. He was making jerky movements with his head and left leg. Change of plan. “I think we should get your husband to a doctor fast,” she said. “Jump aboard.”

“I can’t come with ‘ee,” the farmer’s wife said. “I’ve got a cow in calf.”

“But I’m a stranger here. I don’t know where to take him,” Laura almost wailed.

“Horse piddle.”

“What?”

“Royal United, Bath. Agzydenton Emergissy.”

Laura understood now. “Which way?”

“Left out of the yard and straight up the lane till you reach the A36. You’ll pick up the horse piddle signs when you get close to the city.”

“Can you call them and say I’m on the way with a man having convulsions?”

“After I’ve seen to the cow.”

Laura swung the Land Rover towards the gate, scattering the dogs, and started up the lane. “Don’t worry,” she said to Melchior, or Douglas, “you’ll be getting help very soon.” The only response was a vomiting sound.

“Please! Not in the Land Rover,” she muttered.

She was forced to concentrate on the drive, trusting in the Lord that she wouldn’t meet anything as she belted along the lane. Passing points seemed to be unknown in this part of Wiltshire. The beam picked out the scampering shape of a badger up ahead. It saved itself by veering off to the left.

Then she spotted headlights descending a hill and guessed she was close to the main road. Right or left? She’d have to make a guess. Her instinct said right.

Forced to stop at the intersection, she glanced at her passenger. His face was still twitching and looked a dreadful colour in the passing lights. This was much more serious than overindulgence in mulled wine.

Now was when she could do with an emergency light and siren. Out on the A36, with a long run into Bath — and a sign told her she had taken the right direction — she was overtaking like some teenage joyrider in a stolen Merc. Other drivers flashed their lights at her and one idiot got competitive and tried to force her to stay in the wrong lane. But there came a point when she was high on the downs and the city lights appeared below her. At any other time she would have been enchanted by the view. All she could think was, where is the hospital?

At the first traffic lights she wound down the window and asked. Of course it had to be on the opposite side of the city. Another hair-raising burn-up through the streets and she found seriously helpful signs at last.

A&E. She drew up behind an ambulance. Someone was rolling a stretcher on wheels towards the Land Rover. The farmer’s wife must have alerted them. The passenger door was opened.

“Is this the man with convulsions?”

Laura took this to be one of those inane questions people ask in times of crisis. Of course he had convulsions. He’d been convulsing all the way to the hospital.

But when she turned to look at him, he’d gone still.

They checked his heart. The doctor shook his head. They unstrapped Melchior and transferred him to the stretcher and raced it inside.

Nothing had been said to Laura. She could only conclude that she’d brought in a man who was dead. Maybe they’d revive him. She moved the Land Rover away from the entrance and went in to find out.

She was twenty minutes late collecting Rosemary. It was such a relief to see her.

“I’m so sorry.”

“My dear, you look drained. Whatever has happened?”

Rosemary insisted on taking the wheel and Laura told her story as they headed out of the city.

“So couldn’t they revive him?” Rosemary said.

“What’s the phrase? Dead on arrival. They worked on him, but it was no use.”

“What was it — heart?”

“No one would say. They’ll do an autopsy, I suppose. I told them all I could. It seemed to happen very suddenly. He said he felt dizzy and asked to sit down. I thought it was the mulled wine, but it turned out he hadn’t had a drop all evening. He’s TT. Then he fell asleep, a really deep sleep. I got him into the car — I don’t know how — he was pretty far gone — and his wife noticed the convulsions, which was when I knew he needed medical help.”

“Dizziness, anaesthesia, and convulsions. Was he vomiting?”

“Trying to, anyway.”

“It sounds more like poisoning to me,” Rosemary said.

“Poisoning?”

“Did he eat anything?”

“One of the mince pies I handed out. That’s all.”

“That’s all right, then,” Rosemary said. “No problem with that, if you were the cook.”

Laura clapped her hand to her mouth.

Rosemary said, “What’s wrong?”

“I did something dreadful. I may have killed him.”

“Hold on.” Rosemary pulled into a layby and turned off the engine. “Laura, get a grip and tell me just what you’re talking about.”

Laura’s voice shook as she explained what she had done with Gertrude Appleton’s pies. “If there was anything in them I’ll never forgive myself.”

From a distant field came the triple bark of a dog-fox, answered by a vixen sounding eerily like a woman screaming. Rosemary shivered. “We’ll face this together.”

It was close to midnight when they drove up the lane to The Withers. Christmas morning, almost.

In an effort to lighten the mood, Rosemary said, “If you look in that bag at your feet you’ll find I packed a bottle of bubbly. Let’s open it as soon as we get in, shall we?”

“You’re a star,” Laura said. “Some Christmas cheer in spite of everything.” But her voice trailed away.

A police car was on the drive.

“Is one of you ladies Mrs. Laura Thyme?” the officer asked. “You’re about to see in Christmas at the police station.”

It was the day after Boxing Day, and still Laura was troubled by guilt.

“What upset me most was the way that detective put his hand on my head and pressed down when I got in their car, just like they do with murderers.”

“That didn’t mean a thing,” Rosemary said.

“Well, he didn’t do it to you.” Laura’s voice shook a little. “Is it possible those pies were poisoned?”

“Possible, I suppose.”

“Think of what goes into mincemeat — all those rich flavours, the fruits, the spice, the peel. You could add almost any poison and it wouldn’t be obvious.”

“If they were poisoned, we’ve still got eleven of them sitting in the fridge.”

“Ten. I handed the singers a plate with eleven and ten came back. The farmer took one and ate it. That’s certain.”

“There are eleven in the fridge. I counted,” Rosemary said in her precise way.

Laura snapped her fingers. “You’re right. I kept one back for Gertrude, the neighbour. She asked specially.”

“Gertrude,” said Rosemary. “She’s the one the police should be questioning. I wonder if she’d eat that pie if you offered it. She wouldn’t know it’s one of hers with a new lid.”