Eleanor adjusted her pince-nez glasses, studying the scattered chess pieces on the table. Mr. Hastings had been found slumped over the board, his brandy untouched. The doctor claimed poison, but how?
She examined the pieces again, her fingers skimming over the smooth ivory surface. Then she noticed it—a single black knight, glossier than the rest. Was it varnish? No, something else… something slick. She sniffed it faintly, catching a bitter almond scent.
Eleanor straightened. “The knight,” she murmured. “It was coated in cyanide.” Hastings had the habit of touching a piece against his lips when he pondered a move.
A glance at the butler, who had set the game, revealed the guilt in his eyes. “You dusted the wrong piece, didn’t you?” she said softly.
The butler’s trembling hands clenched. “It was meant for another,” he whispered.
Hastings might not have been the intended victim, but he had made his last move regardless.
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