The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

"And don't think I don't know precisely how and where to inject it. I didn't spend all those hours in the dissecting room at the London Hospital for nothing. Once I'd knocked out old Bony, the actual injection was almost ridiculously simple: angle in a bit to the side, through the splenius capitus and semispinalis capitis, puncture the atlantoaxial ligament, and slide the needle over the arch of the axis. And whap! It's lights out. The carbon tet evaporates in no time, with hardly a trace. The perfect crime, if I may say so myself.”

Just as I had deduced! But now I knew precisely how he'd done it! The man was stark, staring mad.

"Now listen," he said. "I'm going to take that hand kerchief out of your mouth and you are going to tell me what you've done with the Ulster Avengers. One wrong word. one wrong move and."

Holding the syringe upright, almost touching my nose, he squeezed the plunger slightly. A few drops of the carbon tetrachloride appeared for an instant, like dew, at the point of the needle, then dripped onto the floor. My nose caught the familiar reek of the stuff.

Pemberton put the torch on the steps and adjusted its position to illuminate my face. He placed the syringe beside it.

"Open," he said.

This is what rushed through my mind: He would stick a thumb and forefinger into my mouth to remove the handkerchief. I would bite down with all my might—bite them clean off!

But then what? I was still bound hand and foot, and even badly bitten, Pemberton could easily kill me.

I opened my aching jaws a little.

"Wider," he said, holding back. Then quick as a wink he darted in and fished the sodden handkerchief from my mouth. For a single instant the light of the torch was blocked by the shadow of his hand, so that he did not see, as I saw, the slightest flash of orange as the wet ball dropped in darkness to the floor.

"Thank you," I whispered hoarsely, making my first move in the second part of the game.

Pemberton seemed taken aback.

"Someone must have found them," I croaked. "The stamps, I mean. I put them in the clock—I swear it."

I knew instantly that I had gone too far. If I were telling the truth, Pemberton no longer had any reason to keep me alive. I was the only one who knew that he was a killer.

"Unless." I added hastily.

"Unless? Unless what?"

He fell on my words like a jackal on a downed antelope.

"My feet," I whimpered. "The pain. I can't think. I can't. Please, at least loosen them—just a bit."

"All right," he said, with surprisingly little thought. "But I'm leaving your hands tied. That way you won't be going anywhere."

I nodded eagerly.

Pemberton knelt down and loosened the buckle of his belt. As the leather dropped from my ankles I gathered my strength and kicked him in the teeth.

As he reeled back, his head cracked against the concrete, and I heard the sound of a glass object hitting the floor and skipping away into the corner. Pemberton slid heavily down the wall to a sitting position as I limped towards the steps.

Up I went… one… two … my clumsy feet kicked the torch, which went tumbling end over end down onto the floor of the pit where it came to rest with its beam illuminating the sole of one of Pemberton's shoes.

Three… four… my feet felt like stumps hacked off at the ankles.

Five…

Surely by now my head must be above the level of the pit, but if it was, the room was in darkness. There was no more than a faint bloodred glow from the windows in the folding door. It must be dark outside; I must have slept for hours.

As I tried to remember where the door was, there was a scrabbling in the pit. The beam of the torch arced madly across the ceiling and suddenly Pemberton was up the steps and upon me.

He threw his arms around me and squeezed until I couldn't breathe. I could hear the bones crackling in my shoulders and elbows.

I tried to kick him in the shins, but he was quickly overpowering me.

To and fro we went, across the room, like spinning tops.

"No!" he shouted, overbalancing, and fell backward into the pit, dragging me with him.

He hit the bottom with an awful thud and at the same instant I landed on top of him. I heard him gasp in the darkness. Had he broken his back? Or would he soon be on his feet again, shaking me like a rag doll?

With a sudden eruption of strength, Pemberton threw me off, and I went flying, facedown, into a corner of the pit. Like an inchworm, I wiggled my way up onto my knees, but it was too late: Pemberton had a fierce grip on my arm, and was dragging me towards the steps.

It was almost too easy: He squatted and grabbed the torch from where it had fallen, then reached out towards the stairs. I thought the syringe had been knocked to the floor, but it must have been the bottle I heard, for a moment later I caught a quick glimpse of the needle in his hand—then felt it pricking the back of my neck.

My only thought was to stall for time.

"You killed Professor Twining, didn't you?" I gasped. "You and Bonepenny."