“Inspector, what about you and Leslie?”

            Michael felt embarrassed when he saw the two men each pull a pair of gloves from their coat pockets.  They were by no means the fine black dress gloves he had seen many times at the theater, cotillions, or church but they were rougher and heavier and well worn.

            Buckett gave Claibourne a nod.  The manservant lifted the painting and lowered it down to him and Leslie.  They took the painting and carried it over to the easel where it earlier rested. 

            Buckett took out his bifocals once again and scanned the ornate front of the frame.  He lightly drew his gloved fingers across the four sides.  Not finding anything unusual he then turned to the back of the frame and scanned the reverse sides.  The workmanship was not as good as the front.  He could feel the rough texture of the wood.  On the right side of the frames back he stopped and studied a small spot.

            “Thomas, “he said,”look at this.”

            Leslie joined Bucket behind the painting.  The inspector pointed with a gloved finger at the place that caught his attention.  Leslie drew out a four inch magnifying glass in a polished brass frame.  He held it close to the frame and drew it back toward his face until the area came into focus.

            “It looks as though two small pieces of wood were broken off.  The pieces in Braden’s fingers?”

            “Exactly.  Now look at the edges of both.  How would you describe them?”

            Leslie adjusted the glass as he moved closer to it.

            “The edges of both places are straight.  You can just see two points cut into the wood.”

            “What does that suggest to you?”

            “These were not naturally occurring splinters.  They follow the grain of the wood.  These were cut across the grain of the wood in several places.  They were cut with a knife.”

            “Yes, a knife with a fine edge, possibly small in size.”

            Michael walked around behind the painting to see for himself.  Through the magnifying glass the cuts in the wood were exactly as Buckett described.  He stepped back.

            “So what are you implying then, inspector?” he asked.

            “No implication, my lord,” Buckett responded, “just fact.  The frame of this portrait was deliberately prepared to deliver some sort of deadly poison more potent than any we have ever seen.”

            “What kind of poison?”

            Buckett shrugged.  “A good question, that is, my lord, but one I expect will be answered as we go.”

            “So you are thinking murder, then?”

            Buckett answered with a single nod.  “A well orchestrated one at that.”

            “Do you think the murderer had anyone in mind?” Leslie asked.

            “It makes no difference, Thomas.  A man is dead by the hand of another.  In my experience no matter how well planned the murder is the perpetrator always misses something.  He is his own worst enemy and I will be there when he comes to realize it.”  

To Be Continued