Jack's intentions to swing by Miss Fisher's house on the way home, as he had done a thousand times before, weakened as soon as he got into the motorcar. For several minutes he sat, his hands curled around the stirring wheel, unable to come to a decision. He could see her in front of him, wrapped in some glamorous frock or another, handing him a tumbler of her best whisky, before effortlessly slipping into discussions about murder. He needed her to sort his thoughts. But he couldn't bear her nearness. After what felt like an eternity, he started the car and made his way back to City South. He would telephone her in the morning.

His arrival at the station was obvious cause for some relief in Constable Foster, who had replaced Hugh Collins behind the desk.

"Sir, Mrs Geoffrey is waiting in the interview room."

The Inspector frowned before a vague memory resurfaced of having asked Collins to call her in. Several hours ago.

"Thank you, Foster," he mumbled, already on his way down the hall. Mrs Geoffrey was a woman of 35, pretty, in an old-fashioned sort of way. Her blonde hair was carefully curled around the pale face. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and looked up at him with big, dark eyes when he entered. Relief seemed one of the prominent emotions displayed on her features. God alone knew how long she had been waiting for him. God, and possibly Foster.

"Good evening, Mrs Geoffrey," he said, sitting across from her. "I hope I didn't let you wait long."

She made a non-committal sound at this. Jack realised that he was still wearing both coat and hat. Hiding his embarrassment, he laid the latter onto the table between them. Silence snuck into the room and took the third chair while the Inspector attempted to dig underneath a mountain of confused thoughts for anything appropriate in an interview with a suspect. Rain formed a steady background noise for his contemplations.

He finally settled for: "I assume you know why I have asked you here."

"My husband is dead. That appears reason enough," the woman said, smiling thinly.

"We found the note you wrote in Mr Malcolm Geoffrey's office."

Jack peeled a folded piece of paper from his coat.

"5 o'clock, Seaview Hotel", he read aloud, skipping the description of sweet kisses fully on purpose. "The maid remembers both of you incredibly well."

Thunder clapped into the heavy pause. Mrs Geoffrey bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the tabletop.

"My husband was not a nice man," she said after a while. "In difference to his brother."

"So you killed him?" the Inspector asked calmly. "To make way for your great love?"

Her eyes widened in shock.

"No, no, I would never... Look, Inspector, I am from a Catholic family. They wouldn't stand for a divorce," she explained bitterly. After a moment of hesitation she slipped up her sleeve, revealing a dark bruise on her upper arm. Jack gulped. He didn't like where this was heading.

"He raised his hand sometimes when he was drunk," she continued quietly. "Or had taken opium. Malcolm looked after me. I'm not a fool, Inspector. I know he doesn't love me like I love him..." She trailed off, her dark eyes sweeping to the window. Night was falling outside.
"But it was nice for somebody to care, even if we never had a future."

Jack tried to clear his uncomfortably tight throat.

"I don't know who took the knife to him," Mrs. Geoffrey said into his thoughts. "But Jonathan was always entangled in some feud or another. Could have been anyone. A bookie he'd cheated, a drug dealer he didn't pay... But it wasn't me. And it certainly wasn't Malcolm."

Jack took a deep breath.

"See, Mrs Geoffrey, the problem is that your husband didn't die of a knife wound. He was poisoned. Which is not the style of any drug dealer or bookie I've met."

If it was at all possible, Mrs Geoffrey paled further.

"Poison?"

"You must have noticed something, surely?"

She bit her lip, yet again.

"He was feeling quite ill the last two days," she explained slowly.

"And it didn't occur to you to fetch help?"

"No, I... It wasn't a strange occurrence. He took to drugs, and often indulged too much."

"You saw similar symptoms before?" Jack asked.

"I've seen many things over the years, Inspector. Seizures, visions, violent outbursts. Once he was sick all over my new sofa and the sitting room floor. It took weeks to remove the stench from the house, despite my best efforts."

She shuddered in memory of the day.

"You are right, I should have called for the doctor, Inspector. May the Lord forgive my negligence. But I would never harm a soul - not even my husband."

Jack nodded slowly. Despite himself, he felt compelled to believe her.

"You are free to go," he said, after a moment of thought. She rose. "Please ask Constable Foster on your way out to take your fingerprints," the Inspector added when she had almost reached the door. She turned to him, frowning, then she nodded. Jack stayed behind, deep in thought.