Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

While his fellow guests drifted and gossiped around him, Nicholas considered possible ways of disposing of Great-Aunt Honoria. He might beat in her brains with a blunt instrument. There had been a number of reports in the press recently of elderly people being attacked in their homes and robbed of their possessions. If he were to ransack the place and pinch a few things it would seem like burglary — but the noise would inevitably bring the cat-eared McPhee rushing to the scene and he’d be caught red-handed. His stomach turned over at the unintended double meaning; he always became queasy at the sight, or even the thought, of bloodshed.

Strangulation seemed on first consideration to be a distinct possibility. He visualized his hands locked round Great-Aunt Honoria’s stringy throat and the sensation was not unpleasant. He dwelt on it for a while before dismissing the idea as impractical. Despite her age and her dicky heart — her doctor was always warning him that she might pop off at any minute and he had been living in hopes for some considerable time — Honoria was a spirited old bird, quite capable of putting up a struggle and bringing McPhee flying to the rescue. Suffocation with a pillow in her sleep? That would mean being a house guest, and since she never invited him to spend a night under her roof, smothering would also seem to be out.

Shooting he dismissed without a thought. He had no gun and in any case firearms terrified him. Also, there would be the same problems with noise and blood that had made him reject the blunt instrument. It was all very difficult.

“More champagne, sir?” A waiter was tilting a bottle above Nicholas’s empty glass. “Sir Wilfred will shortly be proposing the toast.”

Nicholas took a long swig of the cool, dry wine. That was good. The fellow had said something about a toast — what was the occasion? Ah, yes, Emma Lensbury’s birthday. He hardly knew the girl, but he’d been invited as a friend of a friend. A crowd of them had been driven down in a specially chartered minibus that morning, which was just as well as he’d never have made it on his own. He’d spent most of the journey with his eyes closed, still a bit hung over from the previous evening. A pity; he wasn’t really doing justice to a first-rate vintage champagne.

It was while he was contemplating the dancing bubbles in his glass that he found inspiration. Poison! On his next visit to Great-Aunt Honoria he would take a bottle of her favourite wine and slip in a dose of something lethal. It would, of course, have to be tasteless, without smell, and completely invisible. Almost immediately, however, his brain hit another snag. He knew hardly anything about poisons. Ratsbane and weed-killers, so he’d read somewhere, had painful and protracted effects on their victims. Apart from the off-chance that if Honoria were taken violently ill she would be rushed to hospital, where there was a good chance of her being resuscitated, he didn’t like to think of the old trout writhing in agony. He had a certain grudging admiration for her and he would prefer her end to be peaceful — but he’d like it to be soon.

He caught the waiter’s eye and got another refill. His brain always worked better after a few drinks. His host, in a rambling and interminable speech, was urging the company to wish his little girl a happy birthday. Nicholas applauded and hear-heared with everyone else. He drained his glass and held it out for more.

The solution to his problem came in a flash. Sitting in the bathroom cupboard in his London flat was a small bottle of something a medical student pal had given him long ago when a favourite dog was dying. He couldn’t go to the vet because he already owed him a packet, so his pal managed to get hold of something that could be administered in milk. Old Rex would just drop off to sleep and never know a thing, the chap had promised. As it had happened, Rex had died naturally that very day and the bottle was never opened. Once or twice, Nicholas recalled, he’d thought about chucking it out or giving it back, but somehow he never had. Now he knew why. Fate had intended it for Great-Aunt Honoria.

Back at home, Nicholas rummaged in the bathroom cabinet. The bottle of poison was still there, hidden away behind half-empty containers of aftershave and toothpaste. He uncorked it and gingerly sniffed at the contents. There was no smell. He tipped a few grains of the white powder into his palm and considered checking it for taste but decided against. There was no point in making himself ill; he’d been assured that Rover wouldn’t detect it, and a dog’s sense of taste was bound to be more acute than that of an elderly woman. He’d have to take a chance on that.