As tensions mounted between the quarreling passengers, Captain Graves of the Silver Star began assembling the puzzle’s jagged edges. Across the room, Sir Ulric concluded his examination of the corpse beneath the ship doctor’s awed stare.

  “Cyanide,” he pronounced, stripping off his gloves. “Cherry-red mucosae, spasms—textbook symptoms.”

  Yvette nodded. Just as she’d thought.

  The captain puffed his pipe, gaze lingering on the disgraced officer Jasper Anderson. A indebted gambler, Jasper had weaseled onto this voyage to dodge creditors. Desperation made men dangerous—and he’d served the deadly drink. Yet only Mrs. Palmer’s cocktail proved fatal. Tests on poultry confirmed it: poison targeted her alone.

  Circumstantially, Jasper fit. By angling the tray, he’d steer guests toward specific glasses. Yet Yvette’s instincts prickled. Would a killer truly gamble on such visible methods? A subtler mind might choose arsenic, letting time blur evidence.

  “Sir Ulric,” she whispered, elbow brushing his sleeve. “Could the poison be on the rim?” She knew his uncanny ability to discern substances by taste.

  A derisive chuckle answered. “I don’t lick dead women’s lipstick, dear detective.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. Sir Ulric’s nonchalance toward mortal affairs was legendary—thieves could rob a market under his nose unless police loitered conveniently nearby. Only her stubborn morality ever drew him into heroics.

  She’d relied on him too freely, she realized. Childhood austerity—endless hospital stays draining her family—had taught her to swallow desires. Now, she mustn’t presume.

  “The spill,” Sir Ulric murmured, gloved finger dabbing the tainted tablecloth. He sampled it discreetly. “Not cyanide. Magnesium sulfate.”

  Yvette blinked. Epsom salts? Harmless unless consumed by the bucket.

  Then—epiphany.

  “Mrs. Jones,” Yvette approached the meek-seeming widow. “Might I use your smelling salts? The air here…”

  “Oh, but mine has… feminine additives.” Mrs. Jones clutched her ornate silver vial. “Quite unsafe for men.”

  “Unsafe indeed.” Yvette’s tone sharpened. “Or lethal?”

  Panicked, Mrs. Jones hurled the vial toward the window. Sir Ulric snagged it mid-air, tossing it to Yvette.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A taste of the cocktail dregs confirmed her theory. “Bitter as gall. Not the bar’s doing.”

  To the captain, Yvette unraveled the plot: “The drinks held Epsom salts—harmless, but Mrs. Palmer, a mystery fanatic, mistook the taste for poison. Panic, corset pressure, and age caused her collapse. Mrs. Jones then offered cyanide-laced salts, ensuring inhalation. The real poison wasn’t drunk—it was breathed. She volunteered to drink first to feign innocence, knowing Mrs. Palmer would react visibly to the salt’s bitterness. Your game ends here, Mrs. Jones.”

  The widow sagged, complexion ashen, as truth anchored the room.

  "Madeline?! Have you gone mad?" shrieked Mrs. Breen. "Mrs. Palmer favored you above all others! What possessed you to poison her? Was it truly some twisted passion for that painted boy-tart Nellie?!"

  Of all present, none resisted Mrs. Jones' guilt more vehemently than Mrs. Breen. The two companions lived parasitically upon the widow's generosity - indolent moths fluttering about their cashmere-clad flame. Their shared contempt for the timid Miss West and her gold-digging fiancé had been performance art calibrated to their patroness' prejudices. But with their meal ticket expired, Mrs. Breen's calculations turned icy.

  Had Miss West inherited through patricide? Easily disinherited. If Mr. Anderson's work - well, the simpering heiress could be coaxed to leniency. But a middle-aged lady-in-waiting turning murderess? The reptilian fiancé would seize the estate and grind them beneath his Italian heels.

  "Nellie?" Mrs. Jones' laugh was broken glass. "That creature? He wasn't even our quarrel's false pretext."

  "Then why—"

  "Debts. Fourteen hundred pounds sterling."

  Mrs. Breen blanched. Fourteen hundred! At a time when ￡100 annually sustained bourgeois dignity? Even considering their patroness' wealth, this sum bordered on fantastical...

  "The country estate," the murderer confessed through salt tears. "She tasked me with purchasing that accursed farm. I meant to invest temporarily... The racetrack seemed sure profit. Nutcracker never lost! With the royal stables in mourning, victory was certain. A hundred pounds from wagers would've—"

  Nutcracker. Yvette recalled Goodwood's fateful derby - the snapped leg, the Duke's near-death. Not even Oleander's expertise predicted that tragedy. The crowd's despair had amused the blue-blooded gambler... and now enabled this fresh corpse.

  When creditors came knocking, Mrs. Jones spun tales of a cross-dresser's charms to mask financial ruin. Death became preferable to debtor's prison. But her "perfect scheme" shattered against a youth's scrutiny.

  "Where did I err?" The hollow-eyed woman demanded as sailors seized her arms.

  Yvette's glance implored Ulysses - the physician who'd casually identified magnesium sulfate through taste. But her mercurial mentor now feigned marble indifference. Typical.

  "Cyanide's immediacy betrayed you," Yvette explained. "Arsenic hides in face-powder. But fast-acting poison narrows suspects to whoever handled her smelling salts." A shrug. "You panicked when I asked to borrow yours."

  As comprehension drained Mrs. Jones' remaining spirit, Mr. Anderson erupted into grating jubilation. "I knew innocence would prevail! You're a marvel, Mr. Fisher!" His arms spread for theatrical embrace.

  Sir Ulysses materialized like blond armor. "Your gratitude," he purred with wintery courtesy, "is acknowledged."

  Behind this living shield, Yvette observed frozen tableau - playboy statuesque mid-lunge, Viking captain retreating from Ulysses' dagger-glare, crewmen strip-mining the death chamber for future museum exhibits. For she understood the Silver Star's enterprising captain would monetize this tragedy into luxury cruises for murder enthusiasts, where teacups touched by poisoners sold at auction.