WHODUNNIT DRAMA

The murder of Angela Voss – in the middle of Tate’s Wine Bar no less – set all the gossip sheets buzzing. When the newspapers learned that “Paddington” Parnacki was leading the investigation, the story became frontpage news.

The facts, such as they were, seemed broadly unpromising at first glance. Mrs Voss had met a pair of friends at the venue, Elizabeth Hansen and Sophia Rosenthal. Voss and Hansen had shared a pitcher of a light wine cocktail, while Rosenthal had opted for coffee. The ladies had consumed nothing else. Ninety minute later, Voss was dead, apparently poisoned.

While everything was being tested, Inspector Parnacki conducted interviews, starting with the waiter who had served the three women.

Michael Johnson was a tall, pleasant-seeking man in his late twenties. He was clearly nervous, and kept rubbing the palms of his hands on the sides of his shirt.

“You waited on Mrs Voss and her friends, I believe,” Parnacki began.

“Yes, sir,” Johnson said. He paused, then blurted out, “Am I going to prison?”

The police officer raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that you murdered Mrs Voss?”

“No! Uh, that is, no, sir. Not on purpose. But I served their drinks, didn’t I? So . . . I killed her.”

Parnacki attempted to calm him. “Even if that’s true, merely serving the drink would make you no more responsible than the tray you were carrying. Unless, of course, you knew the drink was poisoned.”

Johnson sagged with relief. “Oh, thank heaven.” He wiped the corners of his eyes. “So, how can I help?”

Parnacki smiled encouragingly. “You are familiar with the three ladies, I take it?”

“Yes. They’re regular customers. Were regular customers, I suppose.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, I took the ladies’ coats and scarves, and seated them at their usual table, by the fire. Mrs Rosenthal ordered a coffee with cream, and Mrs Hansen asked for a jug of the iced wine cup to share with Mrs Voss. I took the order to the bar, and went to attend to some other regulars, the Timothys, who’d indicated that they wanted me. By the time I’d taken their order, the ladies’ drinks were ready. I took them over to their table, along with a pair of wine glasses. I set the drinks on the table, poured for Mrs Voss and Mrs Hansen, then I left them to it. Mrs Hansen seemed thirsty. Mrs Rosenthal asked for a little honey, which I fetched. That was it, until . . .”

“Until?”

Johnson swallowed nervously. “It was a bit over an hour. Mrs Voss got to her feet in some distress. She called for cold water. Before I could fetch it, she’d gone into a coughing fit. Then she fell over and went into convulsions, and died shortly afterwards. Her friends were distraught.”

“Was it usual for Mrs Rosenthal to order coffee?”

“Quite usual, yes. She never drinks any alcohol, at least not that I have ever seen.”

“I see. And did the barman start with Tate’s within the last month?”

“Why yes, actually. This is his second week. Do you want me to fetch him? I’m sure he’s here.”

“Not just yet, Mr Johnson. I may have some further questions soon.”

As Inspector Parnacki left the troubled waiter, an officer approached. “Reports, sir, just in.” Parnacki took the papers with a nod of thanks, and glanced through them. The contents of the table were listed as one pitcher, quarter-full; one glass, half-full; one glass, full; one coffee pot, empty; one cream salver, empty; one honey dish, two-thirds full; and one coffee cup, empty. The pitcher and both glasses were laden with arsenic.

Nodding to himself, Parnacki looked up at the officer. “We need to focus our attention on Elizabeth Hansen,” he said. “Have her brought in for questioning.”

Why does Parnacki suspect Hansen?

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