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round here.”
    “Not quite all,” Rafferty commented dryly. “He doesn't know what subtle poison you're likely to use on him for his presumption.”
    “That's true.” Sam's glasses glinted again. “I must remind him of that on my way out.” He paused, rocked back on his heels and gazed at Rafferty with a narrowed gaze. “Just supposing Smales is right- just supposing, mind,” he repeated. “Did yon young smart-arse happen to mention how long, from ingestion to reaction time, carbohydrate andromedotoxin takes to do its stuff?”
    “No,” Rafferty lied. “He couldn't remember.” He wanted co-operation not aggravation and discretion was more likely to get it for him. It was always a hard enough balancing act to get Sam to commit himself to much before the post-mortem without making life difficult for himself. Rafferty regarded it as a challenge to his powers of persuasion to get him to say anything definite; it was as much a matter of professional pride with him as medical matters were for Sam. Fortunately, Sam's next words told him he'd struck just the right note.
    “Och. These amateurs.” Sam jammed his hat on his head with a triumphant flourish. “The poison is one of the most toxic you can find. A very small amount of it kills—just seven drops will do it. From ingestion to reaction time is around six hours.”
    “Six hours?” Rafferty frowned as, for Sam's benefit, he did some pretend arithmetic. “So he'd have taken it around lunchtime?”
    “So my calculations would indicate. Of course, I can't speak for yours. Maths never was your strong suit, was it, Rafferty?”
    Rafferty gave a strained smile. Even though it seemed he'd been given a reprieve on the dodgy suit question, it was still a sore point and Sam's unfortunate choice of the “s” word rubbed the sore spot all over again. Luckily, Sam didn't appear to notice anything, though Llewellyn gave him an odd look.
    “Anyway,” Sam went on, repeating, practically word for word, Smales’ earlier recitation of the symptoms. “Amongst other things, the victim suffers a slow heartbeat, hypertension, nausea and vomiting, diarrhoea, convulsions and paralysis. They finally slip into a coma. If carbohydrate andromedotoxin is what killed him, I imagine he put the earlier symptoms down to some kind of bug and wouldn't be unduly alarmed.”
    Rafferty nodded. That was something else he'd already deduced.
    Sam smiled with a return of his usual black humour and added, “He'd be more concerned with getting to the lavatory, and then, by the time the convulsions and paralysis took hold, and the realization came to him that he was seriously ill, he would be unable to get help.” He shook his head. “A nasty death. A very nasty death.”
    “Around lunchtime,” Rafferty repeated thoughtfully.
    As though suspecting Rafferty's repetition of the phrase questioned his judgement, Sam remarked tartly, “Such is my humble prognosis, though if you'd like a second opinion…“ He let the words hang in the air as he tightened his scarf with force enough to strangle a lesser man.
    Although he was inclined to tease the irascible Scot by saying he'd consult Smales, Rafferty judged it prudent to forego the pleasure and he shook his head. Sam's recent bereavement had increased his irritability and nowadays the only teasing he could stomach was his own.
    “No?” Sam gave him a tiny smile which told Rafferty the doctor knew perfectly well the extent of his temptation. “Very well. In that case, I'll make an effort to carry out the post-mortem this evening.” He paused and produced another smile, one that didn't bode well for somebody. “And seeing as young Smales has such a particular interest in the case it would be a kindness to let him attend.”
    Like Rafferty, Smales did his best to avoid post-mortems. But, unlike Rafferty, Smales, with the carelessness of youth, had neglected to keep this repugnance to himself.
    It was clear Sam was going to make sure that in