Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hannasyde 02

by Here's Poison Behold

  ‘I want to get out of these clothes,’ said Owen, with the air of one who has been taken against his will to a fancy-dress party.

  ‘Oh no, you look so nice in them!’ said his wife fondly.

  ‘Well, I’m not like your pansy little cousin Randall, and I feel a fool in them,’ said Owen Crewe.

  Randall, who had succeeded in annoying both Mrs Lupton and Miss Matthews by pressing his Aunt Zoë’s hand feelingly, and remarking in a voice of concern that he feared the painful nature of the occasion would prove too much for her nerves, had moved away to where the Rumbolds were waiting for their car to drive up. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘An impressive sight, is it not?’

  ‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ said Mrs Rumbold, who thought him a very smart, witty young man, and was prepared to be entertained.

  ‘Merely the spectacle of my relatives assuming expression of decent grief,’ said Randall.

  ‘What things you do say, Mr Matthews! I’m sure they must feel it. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn’t it, Ned?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s rather unfair to assume that they none of them feel any regret,’ replied Rumbold.

  Randall raised his brows. ‘How long have you known my affectionate family?’ he drawled.

  Rumbold laughed. ‘Three years,’ he answered.

  ‘And your simple faith survives! I suppose you would be shocked if I ventured to ask which of my uncle’s loving relatives is, in your mature judgment, the likeliest suspect?’

  ‘Yes, I should,’ said Rumbold sternly. ‘Nor do I think it’s a question you ought even to ask yourself.’

  Mrs Rumbold, lest Randall should feel snubbed, said hastily: ‘Well, I’m sure anyone might be forgiven for wondering, considering the way they were all at daggers drawn, half the time. I know one oughtn’t to speak ill of the dead, but really, I do think that Mr Matthews was the limit! Talk about rude, overbearing people! Well, he fairly took the cake! And quarrelsome!’

  ‘My dear, you had no reason to say so.’

  ‘No, but I’ve heard him with his family, and what I say is, If you can be civil to strangers you can be civil in your own home, too. Not that he was always civil to strangers either, because everyone knows he was shockingly rude to the Rector, not to mention the way he behaved to Dr Fielding. And it’s no credit to him that he liked you, Ned, because everybody likes you.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said her husband. ‘He liked me because I could give him a game of chess.’ A gleam of amusement crept into his eyes. ‘And because he thought he could always beat me,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, I always suspected you were the soul of tact in your dealings with my uncle,’ said Randall pensively. ‘So was I. It saved trouble.’

  Mrs Rumbold gave a giggle. ‘Oh, Mr Matthews, as though you’d ever bothered to be tactful in all your life!’

  ‘I ought perhaps to explain that tact from nephew to uncle consisted in this case of refraining from asking him for money,’ said Randall.

  ‘Well, they say virtue brings its own reward, don’t they?’ observed Mrs Rumbold. ‘I wish someone would leave me a fortune, just for being what you call tactful!’

  ‘It has certain disadvantages,’ said Randall in his bored voice. ‘It puts strange ideas into the heads of policemen, for one thing, and that, though amusing up to a point, is apt to become a nuisance.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s all nonsense,’ said Mrs Rumbold, reddening. ‘No one really thinks you had anything to do with it, do they, Ned?’

  ‘What you really mean,’ corrected Randall gently, ‘is that everyone is afraid that I couldn’t have had anything to do with it.’

  Mrs Rumbold did not know what to say in answer to this, and merely looked rather uncomfortable. Her husband said bluntly: ‘In face of your own remarks you can hardly object to your relations speculating on whether you might not be the guilty party.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t!’ said Randall, with all his accustomed urbanity. ‘I regard it as a tribute.’ He perceived a speck of dust on his sleeve, and carefully flicked it away with the glove he was holding. ‘Which reminds me,’ he said, ‘that I quite forgot to congratulate my clever Aunt Zoë on the beautiful words she gave to the world through the medium of the Press. I shall have to go to the Poplars, after all.’

  Rumbold’s lips twitched in spite of himself, but he only said: ‘Why bother?’

  ‘Oh, I never neglect little acts of courtesy,’ said Randall.

  Mrs Rumbold watched him stroll away towards his hired car, and remarked that he was a caution.

  ‘Queer chap,’ Rumbold said, looking after him. ‘I’ve never known what to make of him. Is it all pose, or is he as malicious as he seems to want us to think?’

  Randall’s relatives entertained no doubts on this point. His arrival at the Poplars was greeted by only one member of the family with any sort of acclaim, and that one, surprisingly enough, was Stella, who, from the window in the library, saw him alight from his car, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, good! Here’s Randall!’

  Mrs Matthews, rudely interrupted in the middle of the soulful lecture she was delivering on Death, Human Frailty, and her own thoughts during the Burial Service, sighed, and said that it made her doubly sad to think that her own daughter should have so little interest in Serious Things. Miss Matthews, sniffing into a damp handkerchief, said that it only needed that, and in any case she would like to know what Zoë thought poor Gregory’s death had to do with her; and Guy, staring at his sister, ejaculated: ‘ Good? Have you gone batty, or something?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Stella, ‘I haven’t! I’d sooner have Randall being waspish than this – this atmosphere of faked-up emotion! At least he’s normal, but you and Mother and Aunt Harriet are like people out of a Russian play!’

  ‘I hope,’ said Mrs Matthews, a quiver of anger in her voice, ‘that you are overwrought, Stella. That could be the only possible excuse for you. You grieve me more than I can say.’

  Randall had entered the room at the beginning of this speech, and stood on the threshold, regarding his aunt with anxious concern. ‘No, no, we can’t believe that!’ he said soothingly. ‘You are bereft of the power of self-expression for the moment, perhaps, but you will find words, my dear aunt, if you give yourself time. After all, when have you ever failed to find words suitable to any occasion?’

  Stella turned away hurriedly, and stared out of the window, biting her lip. Even Miss Matthews stopped sniffing, and permitted herself to indulge in a somewhat sour smile. Mrs Matthews begged Randall to remember that he stood in a house of mourning, to which Randall replied: ‘My dear aunt, have you no message of cheer to give us, no elevating thought to carry us through this sad day?’

  ‘Is nothing sacred to you, Randall?’ asked Mrs Matthews tragically.

  ‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘My personal appearance is quite sacred to me. I am shocked at being asked such a question. Surely you must have realised that so perfect a result could not be attained without solemn prayer?’

  Stella gave a gasp ‘Randall!’ she said in a choking voice.

  ‘You are an ass!’ remarked Guy.

  ‘You wrong me, little cousin. Dear Aunt Zoë, do not look so outraged! I have come especially to compliment you on your Message to the Public. It was only equalled by pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry’s affecting words.’ His mocking glance fell on Miss Matthews. ‘Aunt Harriet, I must warn you that I have every intention of staying to tea. I am aware that there will not be enough cake to go round, but I am hoping that neither you nor my poor dear Aunt Zoë will have the heart to eat anything. I am going upstairs to wash my hands now, and that will give you all time to think out a crushing reply to me.’ He opened the door as he spoke, and with an encouraging smile bestowed on both his aunts, walked out of the room.

  He left behind him an atmosphere tense with hostility. His aunts joined in condemning his manners, morals, and total lack of proper feeling; Guy said that what he chiefly objected to was the damned side the fellow put on; and Stella sat and frowned a
t the shut door. Observing this, Guy said: ‘What’s eating you, sister? I thought you were glad to see the little ray of sunshine?’

  ‘I don’t mind him,’ said Stella impatiently. ‘In fact, I’m grateful to him for creating a diversion. But I don’t believe his hands wanted washing.’

  ‘What on earth are you drivelling about?’ demanded Guy.

  Stella looked at him for a moment, and then said curtly: ‘Oh, nothing!’ and got up, and went quickly out of the room, and ran upstairs.

  Before she had reached the landing Randall was on his way down again. She stopped and looked up at him, her hand on the banisters.

  Randall smiled, and came lightly down and flicked her cheek with one careless finger. ‘Suspicious little Stella!’ he said softly. ‘You would like to know what I’ve been up to, my pet, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Stella slowly.

  ‘Just washing my hands, darling, just washing my hands!’ said Randall.

  An hour later he was back in his own flat, telephoning to Superintendent Hannasyde. ‘Oh – er, Superintendent!’ he said apologetically. ‘Something I feel I must say to you. I’m so glad I caught you in.’

  ‘What is it?’ Hannasyde asked.

  ‘The detective shadowing me,’ said Randall plaintively. ‘Could he be told not to wear brown boots with a blue suit, do you think?’

  Ten

  Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Sergeant Hemingway.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hannasyde dryly, and picked up the paper, and once more read the notice on the front page.

  HYDE. – On May 22nd, 1935, at a nursing-home, suddenly, JOHN HYDE, of 17 Gadsby Row, in his 50th year. No flowers by request.

  The Sergeant scratched his nose. ‘And what’s more, it may be true, Chief,’ he pronounced. ‘What does it say? – suddenly? There you are then. All the time we’ve been chasing round after him the poor fellow’s been lying in hospital with appendicitis. No wonder we couldn’t find him! Well, well, and now where are we?’

  ‘Get on to the office of the paper, and find out who sent in that notice,’ commanded Hannasyde rather irritably. ‘And do try and keep your infernal imagination within bounds!’

  The Sergeant shook his head sadly. ‘Yes, I thought this case would get on our nerves before we were through with it,’ he remarked, and went out before his superior had time to reply.

  He came back some little time later, and said: ‘Well, now I am going to surprise you, Super. That notice was sent in by General Sir Montague Hyde, of Crayly Court, Herts.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Hannasyde.

  ‘Didn’t know he’d got such classy relations, did we?’ said the Sergeant cheerfully.

  ‘Who is General Sir Montague Hyde?’ demanded Hannasyde.

  The Sergeant consulted the slip of paper in his hand. ‘Born 1871 … eldest son of Sir Montague Hyde, 5th baronet … Educated Eton and Sand –’

  ‘I don’t want to know where he was educated, and you can cut out the Boer War, and the Great War, and his decorations, if any!’ said Hannasyde. ‘What are his clubs? Has he a town address?’

  ‘Green Street, Mayfair,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Clubs, Boodle’s and the Cavalry.’

  Hannasyde glanced at his watch. ‘If he’s in town I may catch him at his house, then,’ he said, and got up, and reached for his hat and for the copy of the newspaper.

  The General was in town, but an austere butler, looking down his nose at Superintendent Hannasyde, said frigidly that the General was still at his breakfast. Hannasyde expressed his willingness to await the General’s pleasure, and sent in his card. He was ushered into a room at the back of the house, and informed presently by the butler that the General would see him in a few minutes.

  A quarter of an hour later the General, a fine-looking old man with iron-grey hair, and a beak-like nose, entered the sombre room, nodded to Hannasyde, and with a glance at the card in his hand said, in the voice of one who commanded whole armies: ‘Well, Superintendent? What’s all this?’

  ‘I must apologise calling on you at such an early hour, sir,’ said Hannasyde, ‘but my attention has been drawn to a certain notice appearing in today’s paper for which I understand you are responsible.’

  The General looked at him somewhat glassily. ‘What the deuce are you talking about, my good man?’ he said. ‘What notice in what paper?’

  Hannasyde produced the paper, and pointed out the fatal entry. The General, after a very sharp glance cast at him, got out a pair of spectacles, and held them over the bridge of his nose, and peered through them at the notice of John Hyde’s death. He then lowered the paper, removed the spectacles from his nose, and desired to be told what this feller (whoever he might be) had to do with him.

  ‘I am informed, sir, that the notice was inserted by you,’ replied Hannasyde.

  ‘You are informed!’ said the General. ‘Who informed you?’

  ‘The office of the paper in question, sir,’ said Hannasyde.

  ‘Then let me tell you, Superintendent, that you have been misinformed!’ said the General. ‘John Hyde? Never heard of the feller in my life!’

  It was apparent to Superintendent Hannasyde that the General was displeased. He was required instantly to explain to the General what Scotland Yard meant by it. He did explain, as briefly as he was able, but the General, stating that he had no interest in Scotland Yard’s damned activities and didn’t want to hear about them, demanded to know who was the impudent scoundrel who had dared to make use of his name? When he found that Hannasyde could give him no information on this point he said, upon his word, he wondered what Scotland Yard was doing. He made it abundantly plain to the Superintendent that he expected him immediately to trace the perpetrator of this impudent hoax. He himself had every intention of getting to the bottom of the matter.

  Hannasyde left him, twenty minutes later, breathing vengeance, and felt sorry for the hapless editor who was shortly to receive a call from him. He himself visited the offices of the newspaper, but could discover little there. The notice had been typewritten, enclosed in a half-sheet of Cavalry Club writing-paper with the name and address of General Sir Montague Hyde also typed on it.

  ‘Then it wasn’t Brown,’ said the Sergeant decidedly. ‘He’s got a nerve all right, but not enough nerve to go waltzing into the Cavalry Club and asking for a bit of notepaper. Why, I wouldn’t have myself ! Come to think of it, whoever pulled this one must have got nerve enough for a rhinoceros.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannasyde, and added with a reluctant smile: ‘Also a certain sense of humour. And I took Ferguson off !’

  ‘You did?’ said the Sergeant. ‘I suppose he hadn’t got any black boots?’

  Hannasyde ignored this heavy sarcasm, and replied: ‘It was no use having Matthews watched if he knew of it. He succeeded in giving Ferguson the slip three times, you know.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said the Sergeant severely, ‘he complained about the boots just on purpose to get you to take Ferguson off.’

  ‘He complained about the boots to annoy me,’ said Hannasyde. ‘He could have shaken him off at any time he pleased. If you know you’re being followed it’s child’s play to get clear in London.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If it was he who put that notice in the paper what was his object?’

  ‘Bit of comic relief,’ suggested the Sergeant.

  Hannasyde looked at him frowningly. ‘Hyde’s papers,’ he said abruptly. ‘Somebody wants to get hold of them.’

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t mind having a squint at them ourselves,’ agreed the Sergeant. ‘But if young Matthews got the name of Hyde’s lawyer out of Brown he’s cleverer than I am, that’s all I can say. Unless he knew all along, which somehow I don’t think.’

  ‘Not a lawyer,’ Hannasyde said. ‘Matthews couldn’t get papers out of a lawyer on the strength of that notice. And if the papers aren’t – Good God, why didn’t I think of it? A safe-deposit, Sergeant! Get me the names of all the big safe-deposits in London: there aren’t many of
them. We’ve got to stop anyone getting hold of those papers – if we’re in time.’

  But they were not in time. The first safe-depository Hannasyde rang up stated that Mr John Hyde’s papers had been removed an hour ago by his brother, Mr Samuel Hyde, who had signed a receipt for them. Hannasyde, suppressing a desire to swear, made the rest of his way to the City, and presented himself in person at the Safe-Depository. The receipt for the contents of John Hyde’s safe was signed in a sloping, copybook handwriting. Mr Samuel Hyde, said the official who had attended to him, had produced the notice of Mr Hyde’s sudden death, together with a copy of his will, wherein his own name appeared as sole executor. Mr Samuel Hyde was in possession of Mr John Hyde’s keys: everything had seemed to be perfectly in order.

  ‘What did he look like?’ Hannasyde asked. ‘Was he a young man, smartly dressed?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all,’ replied the official. ‘Really, I didn’t study him very closely, but he had grey hair, I’m sure. What I should call a very sallow complexion, as though he’d been in the East. I don’t remember him being smartly dressed. He wore an overcoat – quite an old-looking overcoat. In fact, he was very like his brother, very.’

  ‘If he was the man I suspect,’ said Hannasyde, ‘there is one thing about him you could not fail to have noticed. Had he very vivid blue eyes, and extremely long eyelashes?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I couldn’t say,’ was the apologetic answer. ‘He was wearing smoked spectacles, you see.’

  ‘My lord!’ exclaimed the Sergeant involuntarily. A few minutes later, when they had left the building, he said: ‘It’s the man himself, Chief. Somehow or other Brown managed to tip him off. And if you want to know what I think, when we’ve laid our hands on Mr Vanishing Hyde we’ll have got Gregory Matthews’ murderer. You think it over: first, there’s –’