Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [71]
All of which meant that I didn’t dare wait until suppertime to use the contents of the bottle with which John had thoughtfully provided me. His assumption that I would know what it was, and what to do with it, was flattering, but I wished he had taken the time to drop a few hints. I had sneaked a peek at it after breakfast; it was a crystalline white powder with no perceptible odour or other distinguishing characteristics. I didn’t taste it. For all I knew, it might be cyanide or some other deadly poison, the slightest nibble of which would send me rolling around the room with my heels touching my head.
I was not keen on the idea of becoming a mass poisoner. However, I thought it unlikely that John would carry a lethal substance around with him. He wasn’t the type to swallow cyanide to avoid torture; he’d go on squirming and scheming until the last breath. More likely the powder had come from Georg’s pack – coke, heroin, morphine, God knows what. How John had covered up the theft I could not imagine; presumably he had managed to make it look like an accident, or carelessness on Georg’s part. Wherever it had originated, it was obviously not meant for my own use, so I had to assume he wanted me to bestow it on the thugs.
Shortly thereafter I was relieved to find my deductions confirmed. John began twitching and clutching his stomach. ‘I’m in agony,’ he moaned. ‘It’s probably a ruptured spleen.’
‘Probably hunger pangs,’ I said, and was rewarded by a quick glance of approval. I went on, ‘Maybe Max will let you go back to the house and make yourself a sandwich. You can make one for me while you’re at it.’
‘You’d ask a dying man – a man suffering from extreme inanition – to make you a sandwich?’
‘Your playacting is becoming banal, Smythe,’ Max said. ‘You read too many sensational novels. It is only in fiction that warders are tricked into carelessness by a pretence of illness.’
However, the mention of food had its effect on the diggers. They had been hard at it for several hours, and it was exercise of a type to which they were not accustomed. The wind had dropped to a breathless hush that was more threatening than a gale. Rudi finally summoned up enough nerve to ask Max if they could take a break. ‘We cannot work all day without food, Max,’ he added sullenly.
‘Don’t expect me to do the cooking,’ John said, between groans.
‘Dr Bliss and I will be the chefs,’ Max said. ‘Rudi, take that section down another foot, then stop. Bring Smythe back with you – and watch him.’
Max spoke only once during the walk. ‘I am tempted to lock you in your room this afternoon, Dr Bliss.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘I cannot trust you,’ Max explained, in an accusing voice. ‘You might try to escape.’
Any comment on this seemed superfluous. We proceeded in silence.
Though the deep freeze and the pantry shelves were bulging, supplies of perishables like milk and eggs were getting low. The island must have a regular delivery service from the mainland for items of that sort – another reason why time was running out for Max. He couldn’t kidnap the milkman and the baker when they made their rounds; someone would wonder what had happened to them. Any visit from an outsider carried the risk of discovery.
I poured the rest of the milk into a pitcher and put it on the table. Max pulled out a chair and sat down. He had no intention of helping me – he just wanted to keep an eye on me. ‘Sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Cheese, ham – nothing complicated.’
‘We’re almost out of bread.’
‘There is more in the freezer.’
‘It’s frozen solid.’
‘Then unfreeze