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sir.’
    ‘You are certain that you did not see it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Albert Davis.’
    The younger steward took the stand.
    ‘You are Albert Davis of 23 Barcome Street, Croydon. You are employed by Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘You were on duty on the Prometheus as second steward on Tuesday last?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘What was the first that you knew of the tragedy?’
    ‘Mr Mitchell, sir, told me that he was afraid something had happened to one of the passengers.’
    ‘Have you ever seen this before?’
    The blowpipe was handed to Davis.
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘You did not observe it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Did anything at all happen on the journey that you think might throw light on this affair?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Very good. You may stand down.’
    ‘Dr Roger Bryant.’
    Dr Bryant gave his name and address and described himself as a specialist in ear and throat diseases.
    ‘Will you tell us in your own words, Dr Bryant, exactly what happened on Tuesday last, the eighteenth?’
    ‘Just before getting into Croydon I was approached by the chief steward. He asked me if I was a doctor. On my replying in the affirmative, he told me that one of the passengers had been taken ill. I rose and went with him. The woman in question was lying slumped down in her seat. She had been dead some time.’
    ‘What length of time in your opinion, Dr Bryant?’
    ‘I should say at least half an hour. Between half anhour and an hour would be my estimate.’
    ‘Did you form any theory as to the cause of death?’
    ‘No. It would have been impossible to say without a detailed examination.’
    ‘But you noticed a small puncture on the side of the neck?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Thank you…Dr James Whistler.’
    Dr Whistler was a thin, scraggy little man.
    ‘You are the police surgeon for this district?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘Will you give your evidence in your own words?’
    ‘Shortly after three o’clock on Tuesday last, the eighteenth, I received a summons to Croydon aerodrome. There I was shown the body of a middle-aged woman in one of the seats of the air liner Prometheus . She was dead, and death had occurred, I should say, about an hour previously. I noticed a circular puncture on the side of the neck—directly on the jugular vein. This mark was quite consistent with having been caused by the sting of a wasp or by the insertion of a thorn which was shown to me. The body was removed to the mortuary, where I was able to make a detailed examination.’
    ‘What conclusions did you come to?’
    ‘I came to the conclusion that death was caused by the introduction of a powerful toxin into the bloodstream. Death was due to acute paralysis of the heart, and must have been practically instantaneous.’
    ‘Can you tell us what that toxin was?’
    ‘It was a toxin I had never come across before.’
    The reporters, listening attentively, wrote down ‘Unknown poison.’
    ‘Thank you…Mr Henry Winterspoon.’
    Mr Winterspoon was a large, dreamy-looking man with a benignant expression. He looked kindly but stupid. It came as something of a shock to learn that he was chief Government analyst and an authority on rare poisons.
    The coroner held up the fatal thorn and asked Mr Winterspoon if he recognized it.
    ‘I do. It was sent to me for analysis.’
    ‘Will you tell us the result of that analysis?’
    ‘Certainly. I should say that originally the dart had been dipped in a preparation of native curare—an arrow poison used by certain tribes.’
    The reporters wrote with gusto.
    ‘You consider, then, that death may have been due to curare.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Winterspoon. ‘There was only the faintest trace of the original preparation. According to my analysis, the dart had recently been dipped in the venom of Dispholidus typus , better known as the boomslang or tree snake.’
    ‘A boomslang? What is a boomslang?’
    ‘It is a South