Taking up his pen, Grentham jotted several lines on a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Do we know for certain what poison was used?”

“Not as yet, sir. The physician says it is difficult to discern, on account of the, er . . . substance that the Prince ingested.” The young man paused, looking uncertain of whether to go on.

“Well, do you intend to keep me in suspense all afternoon?” asked Grentham softly. “Or is this meant to be an amusing little guessing game, seeing as I have nothing else to do with my time?”

“N-n-o, sir.” The assistant gave another glance at his notes. “It was . . . chocolate.”

“Chocolate?” repeated Crandall incredulously. “If this is your idea of a joke, Jenkins—”

“It’s n-no joke, sir, it’s the God-honest truth.” Jenkins held out a piece of paper with a suspicious-looking stain streaked across its bottom. “You may see for yourself.”

Grentham waved away the offending document with a flick of his wrist. “I am a trifle confused, Jenkins,” he murmured. “I thought you said Prinny ate the stuff, not drank it.”

“He did, sir. It says here in the physician’s report that the Prince Regent collapsed after eating a disk of solid sweetened chocolate.” Seeking to forestall another acerbic attack, he quickly went on. “Apparently the confection is a recent culinary creation, developed in France. It is said to be very popular in Paris.”

“Chacun à son goût,” said Grentham under his breath.

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Go on—anything else of interest in the report?”

“Well, milord, the man does mention the possibility that the Prince might have sickened from overindulgence, and not from any toxin.” Jenkins swallowed hard. “But the Prince’s private physician questions whether chocolate in this new, solid form might have naturally occurring poisonous properties.”