A velvety voice said, "His heart rate is falling."

I licked dry lips and pried my eyes open. A rosette of heads arrayed themselves before my eyes like petals on a flower. With a lurch of my stomach I realized I was flat on my back. Every house guest peered down at me.

Blind Alice Bree's hand lay upon my neck, cool and firm. The smooth voice had been hers, and she spoke again. "Welcome back, Inspector. Don't worry. You weren't out long. Count to five for me, please."

I had no idea what else to do, so I complied. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Flip's shaggy head joined the rosette. "Inspector? Hey! What's this? What happened?"

Daria said, "I don't know. He said, 'Oh, how stupid of me' and slithered to the floor."

"Flip," I said. "Hold on. Give me a minute." The rush of heat I felt earlier faded to a chill as sweat evaporated from my face.

Alice removed her hand and rocked back on her heels. She reached behind her to grope for a chair. Finding one, she sat upon it. Trousers under a shapeless frock, my fevered brain noted. She said, "Symptoms somewhat like heavy metal poisoning, but not identical. Mariam, a glass of water, please? Lazar, a blanket if you would be so kind. The toxin made him sweat."

Heads moved and shuffled. Flip's head came closer.

"Toxin?" Flip said.

"Toxin. Of course," I said. I lay flat on my back, starting to shiver. And I began grinning like a fool.

"Bartel, are you all right?" Flip twisted his head to align better with mine.

"I'll be fine," I said. My voice sounded strong. Steely, even, just how I hoped. "Flip, Blommer was dead wrong. Raptis was poisoned. I just got a tiny dose of it, because I was stupid. Well, lucky. It was dumb luck, but I'll take it."

"Murder, huh?" Flip reached to scratch behind his ear.

I looked ceilingward at all the eyes staring at me. This was all emphatically not according to police procedure. Announcing to a whole room of witnesses that murder had occurred simply was not done. Furthermore, it stood to reason that one of them was the murderer. Furthermore, there was still a chance it could have been suicide, somehow, though I didn't see how. I should have waited. Should have waited.

"Help me up," I said. My arms and legs sloshed as if they were filled with water, but my bones felt all right. I contracted my stomach and curled up to my elbows. Strong hands gripped my biceps and lifted.

I scrabbled and found my feet. I glanced left into Flip's bland face. To the right I found soft brown eyes and sympathy. The man with the scar on his jaw. Lazar Yankov, room five. "Dutch men. So tall," he said.

I wanted to stand tall, after that, but for a few moments I needed my supports. Before me stood a woman with warm brown skin and hoop earrings peeking from beneath abundant black hair. She held a glass of water in her hand and watched me with one eyebrow arched. She was a beauty, of the kind that the eye drifted to and, once there, rested upon.

Mariam Saab. African. Too much jewelry. Room eight.

She answered Lazar with a sly curve of her lips. "Tall, indeed. The two of you make a good pair."

I found the remark too intimate. A criminal investigation was supposed to be a dispassionate and clinical sorting of facts. Yet, here I was, dangling between two men because I would drop into a heap if they let go, having my physical characteristics discussed by a possible eyewitness.

Deep down, I knew that wasn't the trouble. The trouble was that she called me tall and I liked it.

I said, "Thanks, but now how about I sit in a chair?"

Lazar and Flip backed me into a seat. I folded into it and massaged my thighs. No vertigo assaulted me, and I exhaled in relief. Mariam handed me the glass of water. My hand trembled a little, but I managed a sip without any chin dribble.

"His color looks good," an English accent observed. I glanced up and over at a neat man with his hair parted down the middle, like Oscar Wilde. Although Groot had said Trevor Brashear ghastly pink cravat, he currently sported a white ruffled shirt and a spindly bow tie. A skinny fellow, his suit coat hung from his shoulders and arms.

"Do you want me to call a doctor?" Madame Groot's voice husked.

"No!" I barked. "Here's what will happen. Firstly, no-one will enter room number one except me. Madame Groot, do not clean it. You may attend to your errands in the city, but the rest of you will please stay in this house."

Lazar began, "But I need—"

I cut him off. "You may make a phone call to communicate your absence, but this has now become a murder investigation. If necessary I will speak to whoever it may concern."

I tried to ignore the throb of my own hammering pulse and regarded Flip, who parked nearby like a truck whose tires had gone flat. Should I trap him in an afternoon of interviews? The word around the station was that he often fell asleep during such. "Constable Jansen, I think if you would be so kind as to fetch something for us to snack on, you may then return to the station. I will be conducting interviews the rest of the day."

Flip's forehead wrinkled as he interpreted my words. I was dismissing him, and his car. I was also releasing him from any responsibility to assist in the interviews. That might strike him as unusual, but it would occur to him how shorthanded we were, too.

He straightened his spine a little. "Stroopwafels all right?"

Trust Flip to know where the nearest bakery sat.

Flecks of green ringed his light brown irises. His jaw muscles rippled before he answered my question in English colored by something east of here. Poland, perhaps, or Czechoslovakia. "Lazar Yankov."

"Employment?"

"Dietz Engineering. Railroad switchyards and so on."

His clenched mouth muscles twitched again. His jawline scar was at least four inches long. His fingers gripped the ends of the chair armrests upstairs in the small lounge.

"Madame Groot says you were the first to check in."

"Of this batch? Yes. I haff been here about ten days. I was alone here on Tuesday, but I think four people checked in on Wednesday."

"Just to check my notes, who were they?"

He exhaled and looked ceilingward. "Raptis, both father and daughter. Mariam. Mario. Yes, that's right."

"So Alice Bree and Trevor Brashear checked in Thursday."

"Yes."

"Did you know any of them previously?"

He blinked. He met my eyes steadily. "No."

"And where were you early this morning, say, after midnight?"

He spread his hands briefly before returning them to the chair arms. "Asleep. I heard nothing. I slept well and I woke up late. I was a little late for breakfast."

"And did you witness anything between the other guests? Arguments, for example. Anything odd."

"Erm." He hooked a finger in his collar and tugged. "Well, there was an argument yesterday evening. Raptis laid into Mariam. It turned into shouting. Curse words I don't even know."

"What was the subject of the argument?"

"I really don't know. I think he might have been drunk. It was all insults. Black this. Slut that. As a gentleman I really can't repeat them."

"How did it end?"

"Mariam endured it in silence. Then she walked away. They were downstairs by the fire, and she went up to her room, I guess. This was fairly late. Oh, there was another argument a bit later!"

"Oh?"

"Not nearly as bad. Trevor lost at darts to Mario and he blew his top."

"Was it Trevor or Mario who became angry?"

"Trevor, mostly. After yelling and stomping around, he calmed down and went to a corner to drink. Groot shouldn't supply brandy like she does."

"What about Mario?"

"He was staggering by then. Staggering drunk. He's either got a cigarette or a drink in his hand at all times."

"All right. Can you think of anything else?"

"No."

I repeated some of my questions, but the answers didn't change. After the trim fellow left, I flipped back a few pages in my notes and altered Groot's roster a little bit.

Lazar Yankov – Railroad. Checked in last week. Room #5. Handsome. Intense. Lied during interview.