Chapter 4
In the master bedroom of the Double-C, Silas Ward turned the page of his notebook.
"Mrs. Gable told me that when Kate arrived at two o’clock, she brought five white ceramic butter ramekins from her own basket," Ward said, his voice level, monotone, and merciless. "She told Mrs. Gable they were an old family recipe—garlic and sage butter, whipped with marrow fat, intended to glaze the individual steak cuts just before they were carried into the hall."
Clayton’s breathing became rapid, shallow, and whistling.
"The beef..." Clayton gasped.
"The beef was fine," Ward said. "Every man at that table ate from the same roasted loin. The county commissioner took two helpings from the center of the silver platter. The banker from Cheyenne ate three thick slices from the end cut. But you, Clayton... and Vance, and MacIntyre, and Giles, and Hallowell... you five sat at the head of the table. And Kate served each of you individually. She laid your plate before you, and with her left hand, using a silver butter knife, she smoothed a thick, glossy smear of that warm, spiced tallow across the cut face of each of your steaks."
Ward leaned down, his face six inches from Clayton’s sunken eyes.
"You took your fork, carved a generous wedge from that steak—the very first bite, glistening with that garlic marrow—and you tossed it onto the oak floor to show the room that Kate Hayes wasn't fit to feed a hound. And your dog, an animal with a nose that can scent a blood trail three days old through dry prairie grass, caught the scent of the mineral wash. The dog turned away. And you, Clayton... you were so blinded by your own small, cowardly vanity that you laughed. You picked up your fork, cut another slice, and shoveled it into your mouth to show everyone what a big man you were."
A strangled, gargling cry tore from Clayton’s throat. His hands clawed at the counterpane, trying to pull himself upright, but his legs were dead weights, completely unresponsive to his will.
"Doctor Alcott," Ward said, glancing back at the physician. "What happens to men who ingest that particular mineral dross?"
Alcott had stopped grinding his pestle. His face had gone as white as the plaster on the walls. He was an educated man from Philadelphia; he had read the European monographs on toxicological pathology.
"The peripheral motor nerves die first," Alcott whispered, staring at Clayton with horror. "Then the sensory roots. The hair will begin to fall out in clumps within forty-eight hours. The kidneys will seize completely by Sunday. By the fifth day... the heart muscles simply forget how to contract. There is no antidote, Silas. None known to modern science. It binds to the proteins of the blood like mercury, and once it crosses the threshold of the deep tissue, no purge on earth can reach it."