The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
«One more of us acquitted – too late!»
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head, peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently: «How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!»
Armstrong’s attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said: «That’s the mark of a hypodermic syringe.»
There was a buzzing sound from the window.
Vera cried: «Look – a bee – a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!»
Armstrong said grimly: «It wasn’t that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe.»
The judge asked: «What poison was injected?»
Armstrong answered: «At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation.»
Vera cried: «But that bee? It can’t be coincidence?»
Lombard said grimly: «Oh, no, it isn’t coincidence! It’s our murderer’s touch of local colour! He’s a playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible’»
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had given out at last.
He said violently: «It’s mad! – absolutely mad – we’re all mad!»
The judge said calmly: «We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic syringe to this house?»
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well assured:
«Yes, I did.»
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile suspicion of those eyes. He said:
«Always travel with one. Most doctors do.»
Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly: «Quite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?»
«In the suitcase in my room.»
Wargrave said: «We might, perhaps, verify that fact.»
The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.
The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.
The hypodermic syringe was not there.