“You poisoned this, didn’t you?”
‘Oh, that’s a bit harsh an accusation, Captain. Didn’t like your supper much, did you?’ Hickey frowns. He picks away at something caught in between two of his teeth and leans back. With a sharp nudge of his foot, he makes the empty dinner plate clatter across the tent.
‘You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff the doctor keeps in his bag of tricks. Poor Goodsir’s been real busy these days, what with all of those men lying sick. It wasn’t half a moment’s work, grabbing what I wanted, before he ever knew it was gone.’
He flourishes the little glass vial in front of Fitzjames, just out of reach.
‘Strychnine. Dunno what it’s used for in small doses, but what I do know is that makes a wonderful rat poison.’
Hickey shrugs.
‘Don’t worry overmuch, and try not to talk, ‘cause it’ll only get worse if you do. By the time you’re done having convulsions and making everyone panic, I’ll be long gone with my men and Crozier’s supplies.’
He leans closer and tuts, as if in sympathy.
‘It must be pretty hard on you. Just important enough to make for a good distraction, but not really important enough to be of any practical consequence. A shame, really, because I always liked you a bit better than Crozier.’
Hickey salutes Fitzjames in farewell. As he steps over him and reaches for the flap of the tent, he turns around and whispers:
‘If you’re lucky, you might even live through it. I’m not a complete monster. See, the dose wasn’t too high, or I’d have risked you dying before they find you. But if you don’t survive…’
His thin face lights up with a sudden horrible grin.
‘I really like your boots, you know.’
