Behold, Here's Poison ih-2

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Giles burst out laughing. “Oh, that's even better than I expected! My poor Hannasyde, what a blow for you!”

  “I didn't take it like that,” said Hannasyde, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with one square thumb. “I thought it the most interesting circumstance that has yet come to light. You're not doing yourself justice, Mr Carrington. Don't you think it's a trifle odd that she should never have heard of a man who has her name and address written down in his diary?”

  “Perhaps she knows him under an assumed name,” suggested Giles lightly. “Strong aroma of intrigue about this. Was there a liaison?”

  “Oh no, she didn't even recognise his photograph,” said Hannasyde. “No doubt about that.”

  “I admit it does seem a trifle queer,” said Giles. “Not altogether helpful, though. Where does the rope you mentioned come in?”

  “She took me into her drawing-room,” said Hannasyde. “Cosy little room. Lots of cushions and knick-knacks. You know the style, I expect. There was a large portrait of a man bang in the middle of the mantelpiece. She told me it was her husband.”

  “Perhaps it was,” said Giles charitably.

  “I don't think so,” replied Hannasyde in his unemotional way. “It was a photograph of Mr Henry Lupton.”

  Chapter Six

  “Henry Lupton?” repeated Giles, a little blankly. “You don't mean the hen-pecked brother-in-law? Is he keeping a mistress? How extremely funny!”

  “May not be so funny,” said Hannasyde. “That's about the size of it, though. I didn't get much out of Gladys Smith. She said her husband was a commercial traveller, and often away from home. Great air of respectability about the whole thing. Poor devil!”

  “Who? Henry? Seems to have found consolation.”

  “Not much consolation if it comes to his wife's ears.”

  “Well, what's it all about? What have Lupton's peccadilloes to do with Matthews' death?”

  “Perhaps nothing. But if you remember, Mr Carrington, Gladys Smith figured in Matthews' diary on May 9th. On the 13th he had an appointment to see Lupton. Doesn't that seem to you to hang together?”

  Giles frowned. “Yes, it might, I suppose. Matthews found out about Gladys Smith and threatened Lupton with exposure if he didn't jettison her. Is that what you mean? Was he very fond of his sister?”

  “He seems to have been fonder of her than of the rest of his family. And from what I've heard of him a ruthless piece of blackmail like that would have been just about his mark.”

  “He looked a bit of a brute,” commented Giles. “I take it Lupton now steps into the role of Chief Suspect, as Kenneth would say. I'm sorry about that: I had some news I hoped would please you.”

  “What's that?” Hannasyde asked.

  Giles smiled. “Oh, only your friend Randall. He rang me up last night to find out what you were up to—or so I gathered. Anyway, he's meeting us at the Poplars today.”

  “What for?” demanded Hannasyde.

  Giles shrugged. “Well, he has every right to be present when you go through Matthews' papers. He's one of the executors, you know.”

  “Oh, I've no objection,” Hannasyde said. “But I'd like to know why he wants to be there.”

  “You'd better ask him,” replied Giles. “I didn't.”

  “Quite right,” approved Hannasyde, and relapsed into meditative silence.

  Randall's car was not to be seen when they arrived at the Poplars, but the first sound that met their ears when they were admitted into the house was that of Mrs Lupton's voice. A man's hat lying on the table beside a pair of brown leather gloves seemed to indicate that her husband might also be present. Hannasyde looked at the hat without appearing to do so, and turned to greet Miss Harriet Matthews, who came out of the library towards him. She was looking flustered, and annoyed, and spoke in an even more disjointed fashion than usual. “Oh, you've come!” she said. “Well, I'm sure it's nothing to do with me—oh, how do you do, Mr Carrington? I didn't see you!—but I must say I can't see what poor Gregory's private papers have to do with the police, and I consider it most officious—not that anyone pays the least heed to what I say. You needn't think you're going to find anything, because I know perfectly well there's nothing to find, and if there did happen to be any letters about the Brazilian business it proves nothing at all, whatever my sister may have told you to the contrary, as I've no doubt she did!”

  Mrs Lupton came out of the library in the middle of this speech, followed by her husband, and said with her customary air of majesty: “Do not make yourself ridiculous, Harriet. Good-morning, gentlemen. I understand you wish to inspect my brother's papers?”

  “It has nothing whatever to do with you, Gertrude!” said Miss Matthews excitedly. “I won't be treated like a cypher in my own house! You've no business here at all, behaving as though you were the one who had to be consulted! No one asked you to come, and no one wanted you!”

  “Ah, good-morning, Mr Carrington!” cooed a voice from the stairs. Mrs Matthews had made her appearance, and bestowed a gracious smile on Giles, and a more formal one on the Superintendent. “Such a lovely morning, isn't it? Dear Gertrude! What a surprise! And Henry, too!”

  Miss Matthews eyed her with smouldering resentment. “Well, you're down very early, Zoë!” she said. “Quite remarkable! Of bourse, none of us can guess why. Oh, no!”

  “Perhaps it was not quite wise of me,” agreed Mrs Matthews. “But on a day like this one feels glad to be alive.” Her smile was once more directed towards Giles. I'm afraid they will tell you that I am rather a hopeless old crock, Mr Carrington.”

  “If you mean me, Zoë,” said Mrs Lupton witheringly, “I should not tell Mr Carrington anything of the sort. I do not propose to discuss you with him at all, but were I to do so I should not describe you as a hopeless crock, but as a malade imaginaire. Mr Carrington, I believe you are in charge of my brother's keys. Kindly come this way.”

  Mrs Matthews gave a shudder. “All these sordid details! I suppose it has to be.”

  “Yes, I'm afraid it has,” said Giles in his pleasant way.

  “If anyone has a right to object it is I, and certainly not my sister-in-law!” snapped Miss Matthews. “Not that I do object. Why should I?”

  At this moment Randall Matthews walked into the house. Apparently he was in time to overhear his aunt's remarks, for he said as though he had been taking part in the conversation: “No one has any right to object. Dear me, what can have brought my dear Aunt Gertrude here, I wonder?”

  “You don't know what we were talking about!” said Miss Matthews angrily.

  “No, but I feel sure my answer was the right one,” replied Randall. His gaze returned to Mrs Lupton. “You are not unexpected, my dear aunt, but, believe me, superfluous.”

  “I shall not pretend to be ignorant of your meaning, Randall,” announced Mrs Luton. “In your eyes I've no doubt I am superfluous, but I suppose I am concerned at least as much as you are with my brother's death. If light is shed by his private papers I expect to be told of it.”

  “If so singular a phenomenon occurs the whole world shall be told of it,” promised Randall. “Carrington, you have the key to Bluebeard's chamber. Do come and open it!”

  A storm of protest broke out at this piece of flippancy. Without paying the least heed to it Randall conducted Giles and Hannasyde to his uncle's study, and waited unconcernedly while the key was fitted into the lock.

  As one making civil conversation Hannasyde said: “I'm sorry the ladies should be distressed about this, Mr Matthews. These things are always rather painful for the rest of the family.”

  Randall's eyes flickered to his face. “Well, you never know, do you?” he said. “Lots of little things in our lives we should prefer to bury in decent oblivion.”

  “Such as, Mr Matthews?”

  “I haven't seen my uncle's correspondence yet,” replied Randall sweetly.

  Giles turned the key in the wards, and pushed open the door. They went into the stu
dy, a square room with a Turkey carpet, and solid furniture. Randall strolled to the window, and opened it, and remained there, his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders propped against the wall. He evinced no interest in the discoveries made by Hannasyde, which were not, indeed, of an interesting nature. There were some bills, many receipts, several typewritten letters referring to Guy Matthews' future in Brazil, and one brief note from Henry Lupton, dated 13th May. Giles, finding it, handed it to Hannasyde without comment.

  It seemed to have been written in haste, and began abruptly: “Further to our conversation of even date, I must see you again before doing anything. I trust you have by this time thought better of it, and warn you you will have cause to regret it if you drive me to take desperate action.”

  Hannasyde read this through, and was about to fold it up when Randall moved away from the window, and came forward. “Ah, do you mind?” he murmured, and took the letter out of his hand.

  “It is of no particular moment,” Hannasyde said, a little shortly.

  “I expect that was why you were interested,” said Randall in his most dulcet voice. He read the letter, and gave it back. “Dramatic little man,” he said.

  “Do you know to what this letter refers, Mr Matthews?”

  “Do you?” smiled Randall.

  “Yes, Mr Matthews, I think I do.”

  “Then why ask me?” inquired Randall. He glanced down at the drawer Giles had pulled out. “How very disappointing! I'm afraid my uncle must have destroyed his more lurid correspondence.”

  The drawer held an untidy collection of oddments. Hannasyde turned over a packet of labels, disclosing a pair of horn-rimmed sun-glasses underneath, a scattering of paper-clips, and a tube of seccotine. For the rest there was a quantity of stamp-paper, some sealing wax, a pen-knife, a bottle of red ink, and a roll of adhesive tape. These articles the Superintendent turned out on to the desk, but there was nothing hidden under them.

  Randall was looking at the heterogeneous collection, a slight frown between his eyes.

  “The usual odds-and-ends drawer,” said Giles, beginning to put the things back.

  Randall's eyes lifted. “As you say,” he agreed politely. “It is all very disheartening.”

  The remaining drawers were equally barren of interest. Giles had just closed the last of them when a gentle knock fell on the door, and Henry Lupton looked deprecatingly into the room. “I hope I don't intrude?” he said. “The fact is, my wife would like to know—We only looked in, you see, just to inquire how things were going, and time presses, you know. So if we are not needed—?” He left the end of the sentence unfinished, and looked from Hannasyde to Giles, and back again.

  Hannasyde replied:. “Will you come in, Mr Lupton? As a matter of fact, there are one or two questions I want to ask you.”

  Henry Lupton, though he closed the door, did not advance farther into the room. He said hurriedly: “Oh, of course! I should be only too glad if there were anything I can answer, but really, you know, I'm as much in the dark as anyone. A most incomprehensible affair! I was only saying so to my wife last night. I was never so shocked in my life as when I heard of it.”

  Randall took out his cigarette-case. “Don't overdo it,” he said, his smile remarkably like a sneer.

  Hannasyde turned his head. “I don't think I need keep you any longer, Mr Matthews.”

  “I rather fancy that you may discover a need for me,” returned Randall, flicking open his cigarette-lighter. “I may, of course, be wrong, but—no, I'm not wrong.”

  The door had opened again, this time without any preliminary warning, and Mrs Lupton sailed into the room. “May I ask what is going on in here?” she said in tones of considerable displeasure. “You are perfectly well aware that I have a busy morning before me, Henry. I must say I should have thought you had time to have delivered my message twice over by now.” She bent her magisterial frown on Hannasyde. “Unless my presence is required I am now leaving,” she announced.

  “Certainly,” said Hannasyde. “I want, however, to have a few words with your husband, if you will excuse us for a minute or two.”

  “With my husband?” repeated Mrs Lupton. “And pray what have you to say to my husband, Superintendent?”

  Henry Lupton, who was looking rather sickly, said: “Well, you see, my dear, the—the Superintendent wants to have a word in private with me, if—if you don't mind.”

  “Indeed!” said Mrs Lupton. “I have always understood a husband and wife to be one person.” She again addressed Hannasyde. “You may speak quite freely in front of me, Superintendent. My husband and I have no secrets from each other.”

  “It is not a question of secrets, Mrs Lupton,” replied Hannasyde. “It is merely that I prefer —”

  “If you have anything to ask my husband, you may ask it in my presence,” interrupted Mrs Lupton. “No doubt I shall be a good deal more competent to answer anything relevant to the affairs of this house than he.”

  “I'm afraid you don't understand, Mrs Lupton,” intervened Giles. “Superintendent Hannasyde has to proceed in the—er—customary way. There is no —”

  “Henry!” said Mrs Lupton, unheeding. “Will you kindly inform the Superintendent that you have no objection to my presence?”

  “Well, my dear, naturally I—naturally I —”

  “It is now obvious to us all that he has every objection,” said Randall. “You know, you had very much better withdraw, my dear aunt. I feel sure that Uncle Henry's double life is going to be exposed. My own conviction is that he has been keeping a mistress for years.”

  Giles could not forbear casting a quick look from Randall's handsome, mocking face to Henry Lupton's grey one. The little man tried to laugh, but there was no mirth in his eyes. Superintendent Hannasyde remained immovable.

  Mrs Lupton flushed. “You forget yourself, Randall. I am not going to stand here and see my husband insulted by your ill-bred notions of what is funny.”

  “Oh, I wasn't insulting him,” said Randall. “Why shouldn't he have a mistress? I am inclined to think that in his place—as your spouse, my dear Aunt Gertrude—I should have several.”

  Across the room Giles' eyes encountered Hannasyde's for one pregnant moment. It was evident that Randall had at last succeeded in startling the Superintendent.

  Mrs Lupton seemed to swell. “You will either apologise for your impertinence, Randall, or I leave this room. Never have I been spoken to in such a manner!”

  “Dear aunt!” said Randall, and kissed his fingers to her. Mrs Lupton swept round, and stalked from the room. Randall inhaled a deep breath of tobacco smoke. “I said you might need me,” he remarked, and lounged towards the door.

  Henry Lupton said in a strangled voice: “Wait, Randall! What—what do you mean by this—this very questionable joke?”

  Randall glanced contemptuously down at him. “My good uncle, I have got you out of one mess: get yourself out of this!” he said, and walked negligently out of the room.

  Giles would have followed him, but Lupton, a tinge of colour now in his cheeks, stopped him, saying: “Please don't go, Mr Carrington! I—really, I should prefer you to remain! You are a legal man, and I —”

  “I cannot undertake to advise you, Mr Lupton,” Giles said. “I am here merely as the late Mr Matthews' solicitor.”

  “Quite, quite! But my position —”

  “By all means stay,” interposed Hannasyde. He laid his own letter before Henry Lupton. “Did you write this, Mr Lupton?”

  Lupton glanced unhappily at it. “Yes. That is—yes, I wrote it. We—my brother-in-law and I—had a slight disagreement over a—a personal matter. Such things will happen in the best regulated families, you know. I thought it would be best if we met and talked it over. Without prejudice, you know.”

  “Did you meet him?” Hannasyde asked.

  “No. Oh, no! You see, he died before there was really time.”

  “Did he answer your letter, Mr Lupton?”

  “Only by telepho
ne. Just to let me know that he couldn't manage an appointment.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I was very much annoyed at the time—well, my brother-in-law had a sort of manner that rather put one's back up, if you know what I mean.”

  Hannasyde said in his measured way: “Mr Lupton, I want you to realise one thing. Except in so far as they may have a bearing on this case I am not concerned with your private affairs. Nor, I can assure you, have I any desire to make wanton trouble in your family circle. But when I went through the late Mr Matthews' papers at his office, with Mr Carrington here, I found the name and address of a lady calling herself Gladys Smith. You will understand that I had of course to follow this up. I called on Mrs Smith at her flat yesterday, and what I saw and heard there were sufficient to convince me that you are—intimately acquainted with her.”

  Henry Lupton looked towards Giles for support, and getting none said in a blustering voice: “Well, and what if I am? I should like to know what bearing it can have on this case?”

  “That is what I also want to know, Mr Lupton.” Hannasyde left a pause, but Henry Lupton said nothing, and after a minute he continued: “You had an appointment to see your brother-in-law on Monday, 13th May.”

  Lupton moved uneasily in his chair. “Yes, certainly I had. But this is—is quite ridiculous! There is no reason why you should drag in Mrs Smith's name.”

  “Are you going to tell me, Mr Lupton, that your appointment with the late Mr Matthews had no bearing on Mrs Smith—whose name and address I found in his diary?”

  It was evident that Henry Lupton hardly knew what to reply. He mumbled something about consulting his solicitor, seemed to think better of it, and chancing to catch sight of his own letter to Gregory Matthews, said with a good deal of agitation: “I didn't poison him, if that's what you suspect! Yes, yes, I know very well what's in your mind, and I admit I was a fool to write that letter. That ought to convince you—for I never dreamed that anything like this would happen.”