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  “Who could have missed her? She left a path of crumbs Hansel and Gretel would have envied.”

  Livingston remembered that Hansel and Gretel had been lost in the forest because the birds had eaten those crumbs. What bird or vulture had followed Penelope’s crumbs?

  Livingston chose his next words carefully. Trying to sound offhand, he said, “Miss James, the other day you mentioned again that you thought Athena Popolous had a romantic interest in Professor Philip Whitcomb. Of course he vehemently denied it and I noticed the other young ladies didn’t seem to agree with you. What was the basis for your hunch?”

  “It’s not just a hunch. When I was out bicyclin’ today I remembered bicyclin’ with Athena. Just the Sunday before she disappeared Athena and I went bicyclin’ and ended up ridin’ past Llewellyn Hall. As usual Philip was out messin’ around with his flowers. Even though he has his own apartment at school, everyone knew that weekends you could always find him there. Athena stopped by to say hello. When I teased her later that she went down that road on purpose she just turned all beet-red. I just had that feelin’ that somethin’ was goin’ on between those two, and thinkin’ back, he wasn’t surprised to see her.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you to mention this ten years ago?”

  “Heavens no. Everyone thought Athena had just taken off on her own and Philip certainly hadn’t. He was still here, workin’ away in the garden. But now that they found her body on the property next to Llewellyn Hall, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  It certainly does, Livingston thought as he called for the check. Despite her halfhearted protest, he paid for Claire’s lunch. He decided that she had certainly earned her cheese-and-tomato sandwich.

  AS HE APPROACHED Llewellyn Hall, Livingston drove slowly, envisioning Athena Popolous riding down this quiet country lane on her bicycle hoping to catch a glimpse of Philip Whitcomb. For the life of him, he could never fathom the taste of teenagers. In his wildest dreams he could not imagine his fifteen-year-old daughter Davina having a crush on the likes of Philip. “Gross me out,” she’d say, her lip curled. But, he admitted to himself, even Philip would be a vast improvement over the prehistoric-looking creatures, so-called rock stars, whose likenesses immortalized on posters graced every inch of wall space in Davina’s room.

  Athena Popolous had been last seen in the Bull and Bear pub near the train station. No witness had been able to say whether she was on the train, which of course did not prove she hadn’t been on board. On Friday nights dozens of Oxford students leave for London. They now knew that even if she had intended to take the train, the probability was that something had happened between the pub and the station.

  The gate to the Exner estate was open. Livingston turned into the oval driveway and parked in front of the manor house. He felt his senses quickening as he rang the bell. Nearly forty-eight hours ago he had come here to interrogate the classmates of the murdered Athena Popolous. Lady Exner’s companion, Penelope Atwater, had not known Athena Popolous, but around the time of his visit an attempt had been made to poison her. Why? Was there a connection between the two crimes and, if so, what could it possibly be?

  The maid answered the door. Livingston remembered her name as he stepped into the foyer. Emma Home. Rapidly he reviewed the information he had taken from her on Saturday. She worked afternoons at Llewellyn Hall and had done so for the past dozen years. Her aunt had been Sir Gilbert’s housekeeper and later stayed on with Lady Exner until her retirement. That was when Emma Home had taken over. Studying the woman’s bone-thin face, Livingston detected a trace of wry humor in her expression. He decided that before he left, a trip to the kitchen for a chat with her would be in order.

  At his inquiry, Emma told him that Professor Whit-comb and Miss Twyler were on the back porch and were expecting him.

  The porch, like everything in the house, was in need of painting. The furniture consisted of an aging glider and matching rockers with a rickety round glass table cluttered with stacks of newspapers. Val Twyler was leaning back in the glider, one pointed toe pushing on the floor causing it to sway uncertainly. She was wearing a khaki skirt and matching blouse, which somehow made Livingston think of a prim Girl Guide. Another organization his daughter refused to join. Her smile when she greeted him was polite rather than warm.

  On the other hand, Philip Whitcomb was visibly distressed. His sandy hair had a disheveled look, as though he had forgotten to comb it that morning. The knees of his light blue cotton trousers had traces of dirt, suggesting that he had been gardening. With his tongue he kept moistening the lips of his even-featured bland face.

  “I say, Inspector, I’m appalled.”

  Livingston waited.

  “Penelope rang from hospital after you left her. Surely the laboratory is mistaken. You can’t seriously believe that someone tried to poison that woman. She’s constantly experiencing stomach ailments.”

  “Not of this magnitude,” Livingston said quietly.

  “But for what possible reason?” Twyler’s voice sounded disdainful. “It simply doesn’t make sense.”

  “Apparently not,” Livingston agreed, “which is why, if there is a simple answer, I’d like to find it. Since no one else became ill after eating the ...” He hesitated.

  “Tasty pasties,” Philip said helpfully.

  “Exactly. I certainly agree that Miss Atwater might have inadvertently added the wrong ingredient when she was preparing the treats, but since no one else became ill it does suggest that the poisonous ingredient was added after she brought some six or seven of them to her room as a nighttime snack. I wonder if I may look over her room.”

  It seemed to Livingston that Philip’s expression changed from distress to annoyance. “I thought the search your people made last evening was very thorough.”

  “Professor Whitcomb, when we get a report from hospital that poison was found in a patient’s system, we must investigate most thoroughly. The laboratory confirmed this morning that the crackers found in her bed contain traces of arsenic. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look for myself.”

  “Of course, of c-c-c-course.” Philip opened the door and called for Emma.

  It was a bit of luck, Livingston decided, that neither Whitcomb nor Twyler chose to accompany him. He climbed the winding staircase to the second floor, puffing a bit at the effort. He observed that the aging carpet was threadbare and sections of the wallpaper in the spacious hallway were completely missing. “A proper mess this house has become,” Emma Home said reprovingly. “Herself has wanted to keep it the way it was when Sir Gilbert was alive, and Philip is just as bad. He doesn’t notice that it’s falling down around him.”

  At the top of the staircase she led the way to the right. “All the bedrooms they use are in this wing,” Home announced. “Lady Exner’s is the first, then Philip’s, a guest room after that, and the end one is Penelope’s. The door past that is the W.C.”

  “The W.C!” Livingston exclaimed. “Doesn’t Lady Exner have a private bath?”

  “No,” Emma said shortly as she led the way to Penelope’s room. “Anyone else would have converted one of these huge closets or maybe a guest room into a bath, but what was good enough for Sir Gilbert is good enough for her. Doesn’t really matter. She and Penelope share. There are two loos in the other wing and two on the main floor, but at present this is the only working one. Her Ladyship’s finally arranged to have the plumbing repair started, but it will be several months before the new fixtures are delivered.”

  They were at the door of Penelope’s bedroom. The bed had been remade. The luggage Penelope had planned to take on the trip was stacked in a corner. The top of the dresser was littered with odds and ends, making Livingston think of an abandoned gift shop. Scattered around the room were teddy bears of various shapes and sizes. The bed and the night table beside it were in full view from the entrance.

  Livingston stepped back into the foyer. “Are you saying that anyone who desired to use the W.C. on Sunday af
ternoon had to come up to this one?” He pointed to the lavatory to the right of Penelope’s room.

  “Yes, sir. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You must know how valuable this property is. A hotel chain has been after Lady Exner to sell even half of it. A fortune she could make, then she could do this place properly and enjoy it. Philip’s just as bad. Him and his garden! I must say, however, he seems to be getting a little more aware of creature comforts as he gets older.”

  “Quite so.” Livingston retraced his steps and walked down the foyer again as though he were headed for the W.C. He realized that at the sight of an open door most people instinctively glanced into a room. That meant that anyone here on Sunday who chose to use the facilities could have seen the purloined tasty pasties at Penelope’s bedside. He inspected the room and returned downstairs, realizing he had established opportunity but certainly not motive.

  When Livingston rejoined Twyler and Whitcomb on the terrace, it was clear to him that they had been quarreling. Philip Whitcomb’s normally pale face was flushed. His forehead was furrowed, accentuating his seemingly permanent expression of a bewildered scholar. Except, Livingston thought, he’s now a very angry bewildered scholar, or else is giving an excellent imitation of one. Livingston realized he did not know why that thought had risen unbidden from his subconscious.

  Valerie Twyler did not seem to be angry so much as forceful. She was leaning forward in her seat, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed unwaveringly onto Whitcomb’s face. She did not seem to notice Livingston’s return as she said, “Philip, my dear, I know how distasteful and horrible this is for you, but you simply must admit that it is a distinct possibility, and rather than have Livingston looking for a potential murderer, we must stop this nonsense in its tracks.”

  “But Val, I s-s-say, it’s so disloyal.”

  Was it really possible that neither one of them heard my footsteps? Livingston thought. He wondered if this exchange was for his benefit. But then maybe not. “I’m afraid I should have a heavier step,” he said as they both looked up, their expressions now startled. “I could not help overhearing what you said just now and I most urgently suggest that if there is anything you know that can shed some light on this investigation, it is your duty to share it with me.”

  “Philip.” Twyler’s hand reached over and patted his shoulder.

  “Oh, g-g-go ahead if you must, but, Inspector”— Philip stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets— “this m-m-must be confidential. I mean you certainly wouldn’t press charges on an ei-ei-eighty-year-old woman, would you?”

  “An eighty-year-old woman?” Livingston could not keep the astonishment from his voice.

  “Mmmmm.” Philip shook his head. “Of course to her it was a prank, a ... I-I-I don’t know.”

  “Philip, allow me.” Val turned to Livingston. “Inspector, how much arsenic was found on those tasty pasties and how much in Penelope’s body?”

  “A trace,” Livingston said. “Very little, actually.”

  “Certainly not enough to intentionally kill her.”

  “Intentionally—difficult to say. You must remember, Miss Atwater is an overweight woman who has not taken very good care of herself. She has digestive problems, high blood pressure, an overworked heart, a very high cholesterol count. She could easily have had a heart attack from the extreme distress she was in, and in that case whoever added arsenic to the tasty pasties could have been guilty of murder. Fortunately for that person, she is going to recover. Now what did you want to tell me?”

  “Veronica—Lady Exner—very much wanted to take this trip without Penelope. To be honest, Penelope has been getting on her nerves lately. They’ve travelled together a great deal recently, and while in some ways the companionship was welcomed, in others it had begun to grate. As Penelope gets older she eats more. Actually she’s put on two stone in the last ten months. Veronica has said she sometimes thinks they should name a food processor after her.

  “Last week Veronica was out in the potting shed with Philip. He has ajar of arsenic, clearly labeled, and Veronica commented that the next time Penelope made tasty pasties he might want to try mixing a trace of arsenic in them. That way, when she spent the night running to the loo and interminably flushing the toilet, at least she’d have a reason to be sick.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “That she acted on her own witticism,” Philip broke in. “Val, I told you that as a j-j-joke. Veronica wasn’t serious.”

  “I know she wasn’t serious then, but Sunday morning when Penelope went to church service, Veronica said that she was sure her niece would find it terribly difficult to have Penelope on her hands for a month. She again brought up sending Penelope off on her own holiday and going alone to the States. Philip wouldn’t hear of it. Then, when Penelope had to be rushed to hospital, Veronica said something about how sorry she was but doesn’t life always have a silver lining to go with every cloud. Now she’d get her wish to travel sans Penelope and not hurt her feelings.”

  “Only you substituted Regan Reilly as a companion,” Livingston commented.

  “Yes,” Philip said. “Actually my aunt didn’t m-m-mind that at all. She thinks Regan is quite fun, and of course when she gets to the States her cousin will take over. I warned Regan that Veronica is very unpredictable and she must w-w-watch her as one would a child.”

  “But you see, Veronica got her way,” Val pointed out.

  “Yes, I see that.” Livingston walked to the railing of the porch and looked out over the formal country garden. Amazing, the amount of work that must go into those exquisitely laid-out beds. Frankly, gardening bored the hell out of him. “A labor of love, clearly,” Livingston commented.

  “We have three blooms a year,” Philip said, coming to stand beside Livingston. “A great joy to work with one’s hands, to feel the earth in your f-f-fingers, to see seedlings sprout.”

  Livingston glanced at him, then followed Philip Whit-comb’s gaze. He was not looking at the beds of flowers but over them to the left, where the woods began and from where there were faint sounds of construction. It was there that the skeletal remains of Athena Popolous had been uncovered.

  Philip, seeming to sense Livingston’s calculating stare, turned restlessly. “I want a cup of tea,” he declared. “Inspector?”

  It was not the most gracious invitation Livingston had ever received, but he quickly accepted and just as quickly noted the annoyed expression on Whitcomb’s face.

  “I’ll ask Emma to pour it.” Val got up from the glider. Clearly she shared Philip’s resentment at Livingston’s continued presence.

  When she left the porch, Livingston said, “Professor Whitcomb, there is something I must ask you and I prefer to do it in Miss Twyler’s absence. It has again been suggested that Athena Popolous had a schoolgirl attachment to you. I must ask you to be entirely frank with me. Did she ever in any way pursue you, perhaps try to use you as a confidant?”

  Philip’s face flushed. “A-a-absolutely not. I simply would-would-wouldn’t have any part of her.”

  “Then she did try to single you out,” Livingston said swiftly.

  “She-she-she got in the habit of pedaling past here on Su-Su-Sunday afternoons when I was in the front gardens. It was most a-a-annoying.”

  “How frequently did she pedal by and how often did she stop?”

  “Several times. I tried to get r-r-rid of her immediately. I was sorry for her. She was so ob-obviously unhappy. I should have been stern with her.”

  “Professor, please understand. My questions are simply directed to learning whether Athena Popolous may have confided or tried to confide in you about an unhappy love affair or any problem that might help lead us to her killer.”

  Philip bit his lip nervously. “Whenever she ma-ma-managed to corner me, it was to say she couldn’t g-get over her aunt’s death. Naturally it was difficult not to listen to her. I told her she should g-get more involved with the other students . . . make friends she could confide in. W
hen I stressed it was in-in-inappropriate to visit me outside Saint Polycarp’s, she simply showed up anyway. That ha-happened off and on five or six times when I was working in the front garden on Sunday afternoons.”

  “Then the last time you saw her was ...”

  “The Sunday before she dis-disappeared.”

  “Why didn’t you simply tell me this on Saturday when Claire James said Athena had an attachment to you?”

  “Because I didn’t h-have an attachment to her and it was m-most embarrassing.”

  “I’m afraid embarrassment is not the issue in a murder case. Professor, if you can try to remember even one of your conversations with Athena Popolous in which she mentioned a name or plans she may have had, I’d be most grateful. Ah, here is Miss Twyler and Miss Home with the tea. I’m afraid I really can’t stay after all.”

  Livingston gave his regrets to Val, aware that apologies were totally unnecessary. In the car he hesitated at the end of the driveway as he weighed his options. He was anxious to see if the lab had any further results of forensic tests performed on Athena’s body. He also wanted to pay a visit to the headmaster of St. Polycarp’s. The headmaster won.

  Livingston had always felt that Reginald Crane was a man supremely equipped for his job. St. Polycarp’s, after all, was a one-year or even one-term school. Students came and went, some soaking in the cultural experience of studying in the Oxford community. Others, like Athena Popolous, were sent there under protest and never participated in the town life around them. Reginald Crane was aware of the student jokes about the narrow beds, threadbare blankets, and antiquated furniture. He serenely dismissed the complaints. ’Toughen up the spoiled kids,” he had once confided to Livingston. “Budget’s small enough. I’d rather spend it on offering them a wider variety of courses.”

  A different man might have chafed under the endless change in the student body and the impossibility of creating any real esprit de corps such as a four-year college engendered. And yet many former students did show up for their ten-year reunion, however informal it really was. When they came they still joked about the facilities yet seemed to be aware that their stay at St. Polycarp’s had been, after all, a broadening experience. Crane had managed to gather together a superior staff of teachers, despite the relatively low pay.