She was still pretty in a kind light, for she had large blue eyes, and a retrousse nose which gave a piquancy to her face. Unfortunately she was a blonde who had faded quickly, and she had sought to rejuvenate herself by the not entirely felicitous use of hair-dye, and rouge. Nature had intended her, at the age of forty-seven, to be greyhaired and plump, but Art and Slimming Exercises had given her bronze locks and a sylph-like silhouette. She was always rather lavishly made-up, and had lately taken to painting her eyelashes a startling blue, and her fingernails a repulsive crimson. She was as kind as she was common, and Stella and Guy (though they vied with one another in inventing her past history) liked her, and said that she was a Good Sort.
She sat beside Miss Matthews on the sofa in the drawing-room when she came with her husband to condole, and said: “You poor dear! It must have been a terrible shock. I was ever so upset when I read it in the paper. I couldn't believe it at first, not till I saw the address, and even then I couldn't seem to take it in, could I, Ned?”
“It was surely quite unexpected?” he said, his quiet voice in somewhat striking contrast to his wife's shrill tones.
This civil question had the effect of causing Miss Matthews to break into a torrent of words. Gregory Matthews' constitution, his disregard of his health, the duck he had eaten at his last meal, Mrs Lupton's spite, and the scandal of a post-mortem were all crammed higgledy-piggledy into one speech.
“I am exceedingly sorry! I had no idea!” Mr Rumbold said. “Of course it must be most unpleasant for you all.”
“Why, whatever can have made Mrs Lupton go and say a thing like that?” wondered Mrs Rumbold. “As though anyone would want to murder Mr Matthews! No, really, I do call it downright spiteful, don't you, Ned?”
“I expect she was upset,” he answered.
“So were we all, but we didn't say he'd been poisoned!” retorted Miss Matthews. “I wished very much that you had been here to advise me. I shall always feel that something ought to have been done to stop it, no matter what anyone says!”
He smiled a little. “I'm afraid you wouldn't have been able to stop it,” he replied. “And after all, if there is any feeling of suspicion you'd rather have it put to rest, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, if it is put to rest,” agreed Miss Matthews. “But it's my belief that as soon as you start stirring things up something shocking is bound to be discovered where you least expect it”
“The idea that Gregory was poisoned is merely absurd,” said Mrs Matthews. “Of that I am convinced.”
“Yes, I daresay you are, but you know very well Guy had been quarrelling with him, not to mention Stella.”
The effect of this speech was to turn Mrs Matthews from a Christian woman into something more nearly resembling a tigress at bay. There was even something faintly suggestive of a feline crouch in the way she leaned forward in her chair, with her hands gripping the arms of it. “Perhaps you would like to explain what you mean by that, Harriet?” she said in a low, menacing voice. “Please do so! And remember that you are speaking of My Children!”
Miss Matthews quailed, as well she might, and said tearfully that she meant nothing at all.
“Ah!” said Mrs Matthews, relaxing her taut muscles. “I am glad of that, Harriet.”
Under her delicate make-up she was quite pale. Guy leaned over the back of her chair, and grinned down at her. “Attaboy, ma!” he said approvingly.
She put up her hand to clasp his, but said only: “Please don't use that vulgar expression, dear. You know I dislike it.
“I'm sure,” said Miss Matthews, groping in her pocket for her handkerchief, “you needn't turn on me, Zoë! Nobody could be fonder of Guy than I am—and of Stella too, of course. I was only thinking how it would look to an outsider.”
Mrs Matthews recovered her poise. “Don't let us say any more about it. You naturally cannot be expected to understand a mother's feelings.” She turned to Mrs Rumbold, and said graciously: “And has your stay at the seaside done you good, Mrs Rumbold?”
“Oh, I'm splendid, thanks!” replied Mrs Rumbold. “It was only Ned who would have it I needed a change of air.” She threw him a warm look as she spoke, and added: “You wouldn't believe the way he spoils me, that man!”
Mrs Matthews smiled politely, but made no remark. Miss Matthews, with a glance of hatred cast in her direction, asked Mr Rumbold to come and look at the plumb ago, and bore him off in triumph to the conservatory. She was a keen horticulturist, and soon became torn between a desire to talk solely of her troubles and an even stronger desire to compare notes with him on the progress of their respective rarities. She contrived in the end to do both, but became somewhat muddled, and kept on handing him earthy pots of flowers (which he could have looked at just as easily without having to hold them) with a slightly inconsequent recommendation to him to Look at the way she's behaving now, just as though she owned the whole house! He escaped from her presently on the pretext of being obliged to go and wash his hands, and went upstairs to do so only to fall a victim, on his way down again, to Mrs Matthews, who was on the look-out for him.
Later, Stella accompanied both the visitors down the drive to the gate, and said with a twinkle: “Did Mother tell you all her woes when Aunt Harriet had finished telling you hers, Mr Rumbold?”
He laughed. “You're an irreverent minx, Stella. She did tell me a certain amount.”
“Well, I hope you smoothed them both down. They're rather on each other's nerves.”
“And I'm sure it's not to be wondered at,” said Mrs Rumbold kindly. “A death in the house is enough to upset anybody, and when it comes to inquests and things, I'm not surprised at your mother and your auntie being a bit on edge.”
“We all are,” Stella said. “Uncle wasn't poisoned, of course, but somehow when a thing like that has been suggested you find yourself—sort of speculating on who might have done it. It's horrid.”
“I shouldn't think about it at all, if I were you,” said Edward Rumbold with calm good sense. “Dr Fielding is much more fitted to judge than your Aunt Gertrude, you know.”
“Yes,” agreed Stella. “Only if it did happen to be true, and the police come and ask us all questions won't it look rather black that Guy, and D—that Guy and I have been having rows with uncle?”
“Of course it won't,” said Edward Rumbold comfortingly. “The police don't arrest people merely because they've been quarrelling, you know! You're too fond of meeting troubles halfway, young woman.”
“Well, all I can say is I hope they don't come,” said Stella unconvinced.
“I don't suppose they will,” said Mr Rumbold.
But at ten o'clock on Monday morning Beecher went to the store-room in search of Miss Matthews, and in ominous silence held out a silver tray with a visiting-card reposing on it.
The card bore the name of Detective-Superintendent Hannasyde, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard. Miss Matthews gave a startled gasp, and dropped it as though it were red-hot.
“I've shown them into the library, miss,” said Beecher.
Chapter Four
There were three people in the library. One was a middle-aged man, with grizzled hair, and eyes deep-set in a square, good-humoured countenance; the second was a thin man with a clipped moustache, and a very thin neck; the third was Dr Fielding. As Miss Matthews entered the room, clinging to her nephew's arm, the doctor stepped forward, and said in a grave voice: “Miss Matthews, I am sorry to say that things are more serious than I had supposed. This is Superintendent Hannasyde, of Scotland Yard; and this,” he added, indicating the man with the moustache, “is Inspector Davis, from the Police Station here.”
Miss Matthews looked at the Superintendent much as she might have looked at a boa-constrictor, and said Good-morning in a frightened whisper. The local Inspector she ignored.
“Good morning,” Hannasyde said pleasantly. “Inspector Davis and I have come to ask you one or two questions about your brother's death.”
; “You surely aren't going to tell us that he really was poisoned?” exclaimed Guy. “I don't believe it! Why on earth should anyone want to poison him?”
Hannasyde glanced towards him. “I don't know, Mr Matthews? That is one of the things I've come to find out.”
“But it's incredible!” Guy declared. “I simply can't believe it!”
“I'm afraid there's no doubt, Guy,” interposed Fielding. “The analysts discovered nicotine.”
Guy blinked. “Nicotine? But he didn't smoke!”
“So Dr Fielding has been telling me,” replied Hannasyde.
Miss Matthews found her voice. “Then it couldn't have been the duck!” she said.
“The duck?” repeated Hannasyde a little blankly.
“Yes, because if there had been any poison in that we should all be dead! And in any case I have the bill for two lamb cutlets, and anyone will tell you that they were ordered for my brother, even though he didn't eat them.”
“Miss Matthews was afraid that the roast duck which her brother ate that evening might have caused his death,” explained the doctor.
“I see,” said Hannasyde. “No, it could hardly have been the duck, Miss Matthews. Can you remember what else your brother ate or drank on the night he died?”
She began to enumerate the dishes which had appeared for dinner, but he stopped her. “No, later than that, Miss Matthews. Did he take anything on going to bed? A cup of Ovaltine, perhaps, or—”
“He couldn't bear anything with malt in it,” said Miss Matthews positively. “Often and often I've begged him to try it, because he didn't sleep very well, but he never would listen to advice, not even when he was a little boy.”
“Did he take anything at all for his insomnia?” Hannasyde asked.
“Oh, it wasn't as bad as that!” said Miss Matthews. “In fact, it's my belief he slept a lot better than he thought he did.”
Hannasyde turned his head towards the doctor, and raised his brows in a mute question.
Fielding said: “I prescribed nothing. He may occasionally have taken aspirin. I don't know.”
“No, that I'm sure he did not,” said Miss Matthews. “He didn't approve of drugs.”
“Then between dinner and bedtime he didn't, to your knowledge, take anything at all? No drink of any sort? A whiskey-and-soda, for instance, or—”
“Oh, that sort of thing!” said Miss Matthews. “He often had a whiskey-and-soda about half an hour before he went to bed. Not always, you know, but quite often. We have a tray brought into the drawing-room at ten o'clock. I myself think it's entirely unnecessary, and simply encourages young people to sit up late, drinking and smoking, and wasting the electricity.”
“Do you remember if your brother had a whiskey-and-soda, or any other kind of drink, on Tuesday evening? Perhaps you can help me, Mr Matthews?”
“I was just trying to remember,” said Guy. “I don't think—”
“Yes, he did,” said Miss Matthews suddenly. “Speaking to you reminded me of it, Guy. He had a small whiskey, and he said that when he asked for a small one he didn't mean he wanted it drowned in soda. And you said the syphon was rather "up." Don't you remember?”
“Was that the night he died?” asked Guy, frowning.
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“Did you pour out his drink for him, Mr Matthews?”
“Yes. I often did,” Guy answered.
“At about what time did he have the whiskey?”
“Oh, I don't know! The usual time, I think. Round about half-past ten.”
“Do you know when he went up to bed?”
“No, I was in the billiard-room with my sister.”
“My brother always went up to his room at eleven, unless we had visitors,” said Miss Matthews. “We were all brought up to keep regular hours in my family, though I must say Gregory used to waste a lot of time pottering about his room before he got into bed.”
“You don't know what he did after he went upstairs, or when he actually got into bed?”
Miss Matthews was inclined to be affronted.
“Certainly not! I was not in the habit of spying on him!”
“I wasn't suggesting anything like that, Miss Matthews,” replied Hannasyde peaceably. “You might have heard him moving about in his room.”
“Oh no, this house is very well built, and, besides, my room isn't next to his.”
“I see. Who did sleep next to Mr Matthews?”
“Well, my sister-in-law, in a way, but there's a bathroom in between,” explained Miss Matthews. Hannasyde looked at Guy. “At what hour did you go up to bed, Mr Matthews?”
“Haven't an idea,” said Guy carelessly. “Sometime between half-past eleven and twelve, I should think.”
“Did you notice whether the light was still on in your uncle's room?”
“No, I'm afraid I didn't My sister might know. She went up at the same time.”
“Yes, I should like to have a talk with Miss—Miss Stella Matthews,” nodded Hannasyde, consulting his notebook. “And with Mrs Matthews too, if you please.”
“My mother doesn't get up till after breakfast, but I'll go and tell her,” volunteered Guy, and left the room.
Mrs Matthews was doing her hair at the dressing-table when her son knocked on the door. She smiled at him as he came in, and said: “Well, darling, not gone off to work yet?”
“No, and a darned good job too!” said Guy. “Haven't you heard? There's a chap from Scotland Yard downstairs, cross-examining everybody!”
Mrs Matthews' comb was stayed in mid-air; in the mirror her eyes met Guy's for one startled moment. Then she put the comb down, and turned in her chair to face him. “Scotland Yard,” she repeated. “That means he was poisoned.”
“Yes, something to do with nicotine. I never heard of poisoning anybody with nicotine myself but that's what Fielding said. The Superintendent's interviewing Aunt Harriet now, and then he wants to see you and Stella. He's already asked Aunt Harriet and me a whole lot of questions. Aunt was scared out of her life at first, but personally I found it rather amusing.”
“What did your aunt say?” asked Mrs Matthews quickly.
“Oh, she drivelled on in her usual style! Mostly irrelevant. Except that she would insist on stressing the fact that it was I who poured out uncle's drink for him on the night he died.” He gave a little laugh. “Actually it wouldn't be a bad plan if someone tipped her the wink not to talk so much. Given time she'll tell the police all the family details, down to what uncle was like in the cradle.”
Mrs Matthews began to put up her hair. “I'll go down at once. Run along while I finish dressing, dear. Oh, and Guy!—Find Stella, and tell her I want her, will you? And just remember, darling, that the less you say the better. It isn't that there's anything to conceal, but you and Stella are inclined to let your tongues run away with you, and you very often give a totally wrong impression to people. I want you for all our sakes to be careful what you say.”
“Well, of course!” said Guy, rather impatiently. “You don't suppose I'm going to give anything away, do you, mother?”
“There's nothing to give away, dear. All I mean is that I don't want you to talk in that silly, exaggerated way you and Stella so often fall into, particularly when speaking of your uncle.”
“All right, all right!” Guy said. “I'm not quite a fool, mother!”
He went downstairs again, and found his sister in the hall, holding a low-voiced conversation with Dr Fielding. They both looked up as Guy rounded the bend in the stairs, and he saw that Stella was rather pale. “Mother wants you,” he told her. “Seen the giddy detective yet?”
“No. I'm scared stiff of him,” Stella confessed.
“You needn't be, Stella; he's not at all alarming,” said the doctor reassuringly.
“I shall go and blurt out something stupid. Policemen always terrify me,” said Stella with a nervous laugh. “You know, in spite of talking about it, and wondering what would happen if uncle had been poisoned, I ne
ver really believed he had been, did you, Guy? Deryk says it was nicotine, which, as a matter of fact, I always thought was the stuff you get in tobacco.”
“Well, so it is,” said Guy. “I didn't know you could poison people with it either. Is it often done, Fielding?”
“No, I don't think so,” replied the doctor shortly.
“I suppose he couldn't have taken it by accident, could he?” suggested Stella hopefully.
The doctor shrugged. “I should say, very unlikely.”
“Well, but when could he have swallowed it if not at dinner?”
“My dear girl, what's the use of asking me? I don't know.”
“You needn't be stuffy about it,” said Stella mildly. “It's my belief you know more than you pretend about this nicotine stuff.”
“Actually I know extremely little about nicotine,” answered Fielding. “Sorry if that blights your faith in me, but it is not the sort of poison that comes in the way of general practice.”
“Jolly lucky for you,” remarked Guy. “I mean, if it had been an ordinary sort of poison, like arsenic, they might have suspected you.”
“Why should they?” demanded Stella fiercely. “There's no reason to suspect Deryk!”
Fielding smiled. “Oh yes, there is, Stella! Guy is quite right, and I have no hesitation in freely acknowledging it: it might easily have looked as though I could have done it, had the poison been one you'd find in a doctor's poison-cupboard. A great many people know that I was not on good terms with your uncle, and I imagine that all the members of your family know that he had threatened to spread an unpleasant scandal which would in all probability have injured my practice considerably.”
“Yes, but we shan't say anything about it, you know,” said Guy, a little awkwardly.
“I don't wish you to conceal it, I assure you,” replied Fielding calmly. “If I am asked I shall certainly tell the police the entire story.” He added with a slight smile: “Nor do I imagine that Miss Matthews will be as discreet as you and Stella would be!”
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