"Jane M. Lindskold - A Touch of Poison" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lindskold Jane)

eat what I do."

"Individual pies," Adalia Baker replied promptly, "each with sculpted crusts tailored to compliment the
intended diner so that no one is served the wrong pie."

"You seem to have thought of everything," Greene Reid said once more.

"I tried," Adalia admitted. "At first the presence of your guests caused me some concern, then I realized
that they would actually prove useful, for there would be outsiders in the house and thus many more
suspects. Moreover, with the pies neatly initialed, it should seem quite possible that someone else could
add something to the one meant for you."

"Very nice," Reid replied. "Go about your duties, Widow Baker."

She took the broken pastry from in front of him and messed it under other fragments of his meal.

"The dog?" she asked, looking at the old hound's stiffening corpse.

"The steward will deal with that," Reid said. He gave her a kindly smile. "Now go to your duties and trust
that I shall attend to mine."

"I shall," she said, and then so softly that Reid suspected he was not meant to hear. "I must."

After leaving the Supreme Affluent's presence, Adalia went to the bake house and tossed the poisoned
pastry into the fire, leaving the vents open wide lest the burning poison make the air noxious.

While the pastry burned, Adalia allowed herself several jam rolls and a stout cup of tea to steady her
nerves. Although she had kept her composure before the master, she had not been at all confident he
would believe her rather outlandish tale.

For the first time since she had seen Jori vanish over the windowsill, she permitted herself to hope, and so
in a happier frame of mind she occupied herself with preparations for later in the day.
Cook's dislike for her meant that Adalia had fewer assistants than she shouldтАФa thing she usually
resented. Today, she was grateful.

Shortly before the noon hour, the half-wit who mended the fires brought Adalia a piece of folded paper.
Accepting it and rewarding the messenger with a bit of hot bread, Adalia unfolded it, thanking her
guardian stars that her parents had insisted she learn her letters.

'Two finger widths below noon," the note read, "be in front of the bandstand near Pier Seven. Listen for
someone whistling 'My Love is a Sailor Boy.' Draw no attention to yourself. Come alone."

The missive was unsigned. Though Adalia turned the paper over and over, hoping for some indication of
the sender's identity, she found nothing. In the end, she refolded the note and tucked it into her bodice.
Then she continued her preparations for this evening's dinner party.

No one thought it at all odd when she closed the bake house at the hottest part of the day. Already the
loaves and rolls, fragrant as some yeasty perfume, were arrayed in baskets beneath fine linen covers.

Cook's resentment of Adalia was limited to wanting the chief baker's post for her great-niece, not to