I called Suzanne Miller on her cell.

“Hi, Suzanne,” I said, “Max Moreton here. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday afternoon. Do you have a minute?”

“Fire away,” she said. “I’m in my office anyway. We’ve had a wedding here today, so I’m still working.”

“I didn’t know you had weddings at the racetrack,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Most Saturdays during the summer, when there’s no racing, of course. We use the Hong Kong Suite for the ceremony and then, often, the Champions Gallery restaurant for the reception. It works quite well.”

“You live and learn,” I said.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I wonder if I could have a copy of the guest list from last Friday night?”

“Sure,” she said, “no problem. I have it on my computer. I’ll e-mail it to you now.”

“Thanks,” I said. “There is another thing. Do you have a list of the names of all the temporary staff that you found through the agency?”

“Not their names,” she said. “The agency just gave me the number that would be there, not their names.”

“But, you remember, some of them failed to turn up, and we had to draft in a few of your own staff at the last minute,” I said. “Do you, by chance, have the names of those that didn’t come, and also the names of your staff that we drafted in?”

“I’ll e-mail the agency’s phone number and you can ask them directly,” she said. “Why do you need to know the names of my staff?”

How much should I tell her? She had been quick to hang me out to dry when the letter from Caroline Aston had first appeared on her desk. Would she now simply think I was looking for a scapegoat?

“I have reason to believe that something may have been put into the dinner that shouldn’t have been there,” I said, “and I am trying to determine the names of everyone who was there and had access to the food so I can find out who was responsible.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

“Are you saying that you think my staff are to blame for making people ill?” Suzanne said rather frostily.

“No,” I replied hastily. “I’m not saying that, and I don’t think it. Your staff were all last-minute replacements, so it is impossible for them to be the ones.” I thought it most unlikely that anyone could buy and prepare a large number of kidney beans on such short notice. “I would just like their names so that I can eliminate them from my inquiry.” I was beginning to sound like a policeman.

“I will look it up,” she said. “But I will have to ask them first if they are happy for you to have their names.”

“That’s fine by me,” I said.

“Do you really think that the food was poisoned on purpose?”

“Suzanne,” I said, “I know it sounds crazy, but I have absolutely no other explanation. Hospital tests have shown beyond doubt that there was stuff in that dinner that I didn’t put in there, so what am I to think?”

“What stuff?” she asked.

“I’d rather not say,” I said. I don’t know why I thought it might be useful to keep some of the facts secret. Perhaps I had hopes of catching out the culprit by him saying “kidney beans” when I hadn’t mentioned it. I was sure that I had once read a detective novel when that sort of thing had happened and the policeman had instantly solved the case.

“All sounds very cloak-and-dagger to me,” she said. “And a bit far-fetched as well, if you ask me. Why would anyone want to poison so many people anyway?”

“I don’t know why,” I said. “Why do so many people have the urge to break things? Perhaps it was just done for kicks. There’s no logic to many things.”

“Are the police looking for whoever did it?” she asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “I think the police are preoccupied looking for last Saturday’s bomber.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “They’re certainly still here at the racetrack, and we nearly had to cancel today’s wedding because of them, but, thankfully, we don’t use the Head On Grandstand. That’s now going to be closed for months. But surely you should inform the police if you have suspicions about the dinner?”

“Maybe I will,” I said, although privately I thought they would believe the same as Angela Milne, that I had simply served undercooked kidney beans and was not prepared to admit it.

“What else do you intend to do?” she asked.

“Probably nothing,” I said. “A bit of food poisoning that didn’t do any permanent harm to anyone is not really important compared to the bombing.” And, I thought, it might be better for my reputation, and for the restaurant, if I were to let the incident slowly fade from people’s memory rather than keep stirring it up.

“Let me know if I can be of any help,” said Suzanne.

“Thanks, I will,” I said. “And don’t forget the guest list and the agency information.”

“On their way to you right now.” I could hear her tapping away on a keyboard. “Gone,” she said. “Should be with you any moment.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” We hung up, and I turned to my computer.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL, it told me, and, sure enough, with a couple of clicks, the guest list from the gala dinner appeared before my eyes. How did we function before e-mail?

I scanned through the list of names, but I didn’t actually know what I was looking for, or why, so I printed it out and left it lying on my pile of stuff to be dealt with. I logged on to the Internet instead.

I made a search for RPO and soon I was delving into the details of concerts and operas of the Royal Philharmonic. Sure enough, the concert program at the Royal Festival Hall was widely advertised, and, if I wished, I could purchase a ticket with just a couple of clicks of my computer mouse. I noticed that tonight, and for most of the next week, the orchestra was performing the works of Sibelius and Elgar at Carnegie Hall in New York City. Lucky Caroline Aston, I thought. I had been to New York in the springtime the previous year and had loved every moment.

I looked at Ms. Aston’s telephone number on the notepad where I had written it on Wednesday morning when Bernard Sims had called. If she was in New York, she wouldn’t be at home now. Three times I punched her number into my phone without actually pushing the button for the final digit. I wondered if there might be a voice message, so I could hear what she sounded like. The fourth time, I completed the number and let it ring twice before I lost my nerve and hung up. Maybe she didn’t live alone and someone would be there to answer after all.

I played with the phone for a while longer and then called the number again. Someone answered after a single ring.

“Hello,” said a female voice.

Oops, I thought, no recorded voice message. A real live speaking person.

“Is this Caroline Aston?” I asked, confident in the knowledge that she was, in fact, three thousand miles away.

“Yes,” she replied. “Can I help you?”

“Er,” I said, sounding like an idiot, “would you like to buy some double glazing?”

“No thank you,” she said. “Good-bye!” She hung up.

Stupid, I thought, as I sat there with my heart thumping in my chest. Really stupid. I put the phone down and it rang immediately.

“Hello,” I said.

“Would you like to buy some double glazing?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“See. Why do you think I would want to buy double glazing from someone I don’t know who rings me up out of the blue? You don’t like it and neither do I.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.” It sounded ridiculous even to me.

“Who are you anyway?” she said. “You’re not very good at selling.”

“How did you get my number?” I asked.

“Caller ID,” she said. “I didn’t think you people would have a number that was visible. More important, how did you get my number?”

I could hardly tell her the truth, but whatever else I said now was going to get me into deeper trouble. I decided to retreat gracefully.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go now. Good-bye.” I hung up quickly. My hands were sweating. Really, really stupid!