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murder weapon. A gun or knife or the like. And we have no such murder weapon. We have, in fact,
no idea how the lady died.”
“This I know as well.”
Morass squinted up at Seal, but the man’s face was largely shadowed by his hat, a
strange affair with an absurdly broad brim. Woven in straw as if Seal had been, at one time or
another, upon safari. “Poison would be my guess,” he said quietly.
Seal stiffened. “Poison is a woman’s weapon. Anthony Weaver is a decorated officer.”
Morass wiped his chubby hands on one of the delicate serviettes on the table, without
much effect. “So you are suggesting he would announce this fact by running through his prey with an
army issued saber? Yes, he is an officer, but he is also an old man and a smart one. Smart enough to
choose a weapon which is both less expected and which allows him to be far away when the victim
succumbs. Victims, I should say. We all keep forgetting the Indian. You have not been in this country
as long as I have, Inspector Seal. There are any number of botanicals here on the subcontinent which
would confound detection in a European laboratory.”
Seal at last abandoned his pacing and sat back down at the table. “We have collected
blood,” he said. “Enough to give this Scotland Yard doctor a decent crack at analysis. And as for the
fingerprints, I shall concede your point, that the prints of the accused are more likely helpful than
those of the victims. But let us assume your theory of poison is a sound one. Would fingerprints not
help us to reconstruct the case, learn more about how the poison was administered? Via a teacup or
spoon or through some sort of legitimate medication? If so, knowing what she touched last would be
most helpful and for that we need her fingerprints as well as her husband’s.”
Morass nodded. “True enough, I suppose, especially when one reflects upon the role of
the Indian. For he’s the most puzzling piece of the puzzle, is he not? I find it hard to imagine
circumstances in which a servant and his mistress might have imbibed the same substance. They
would hardly take tea together, or share a cocktail, and he certainly would not take her prescribed
medication.”
“It is confounding, I agree,” Seal said, reflecting that perhaps he had dismissed Morass
too quickly. The man’s observations were surprisingly sound. Seal added, a bit lamely, “So perhaps
we should both be grateful that the Yard is on their way to lift the matter from our hands.”
Faced with such a blatant lie, Morass could only snort. “Damn the Yard. All they shall
do is take credit if the case is closed and blame us if it isn’t. So I suppose you are right, we must
provide them with the fingerprints of everyone in Bombay if only to cover our own arses. And you
are right as well that it must be soon, for the decomposition is no doubt advancing hourly, despite that
heap of ice. Did you bring wax? Or is ink the preferred method?”
Seal slumped in his chair and looked down, the hat now completely obscuring his
features. ”I brought neither. I haven’t the foggiest notion of how to take fingerprints, you see. I have
read articles, of course, but I was hoping…I was rather hoping you might have sometime seen it
done.”
“I have never even read the articles,” Morass said. “We could borrow some ink from
the club secretary, I suppose. Go down to the kitchens and give it a try?”
“But in trying we may muck it up worse,” Seal said. “Damage whatever prints do
remain past the point that even Scotland Yard could retrieve them. How much do you know about
decomposition?”
“What sort of question is that? I know what any other man knows. That it happens. Heat
accelerates the process. That it stinks.”