Behold, Here's Poison ih-2

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “No, I was away. I only got back last week.”

  “Oh, I see!” Hannasyde said. “Never mind, then: it doesn't much matter.”

  Edward Rumbold, rejoining the family in the library, made no mention of his conversation with the Superintendent, but merely said that Hannasyde had not told him when he expected to receive the analyst's report.

  “What does it matter?” Stella said impatiently. “What's the use of blinking facts? We know she was poisoned!”

  “My dear child, we do not know anything of the sort,” said Mrs Matthews. “Please try to control yourself !”

  “Why did you pretend you couldn't remember who had washed that medicine-glass?” Stella demanded. “Mother, why?”

  Mrs Matthews arranged her pleats again. “Really, Stella!” she protested. “I should have thought you must have known that my memory is not my strongest point. I have had far more important things to think about today than who washed up a glass.”

  “You always do it yourself ! You told me so!”

  “Very well, dear, no doubt I did wash it, then. It is not a very vital matter, after all.”

  Stella was silenced, and turned away. Guy said, as though he had been rehearsing it: “I suppose you know that Aunt Harriet's money comes to me?”

  “Money!” said Mrs Matthews sharply. “She had none to speak of. Don't be so foolish, Guy! And I don't think it's quite nice of you, dear boy, to think about what poor Harriet may or may not have left you when she's only been dead —”

  “There's about four thousand,” Guy interrupted. “God knows I could do with it, too!”

  Stella made a choking sound, and went hastily out of the room. The telephone on the hall-table caught her eye. She stood still, looking at it, and then, as though of impulse, picked up the receiver, and gave a number.

  In a little while a precise voice answered her. Stella asked if she could speak to Mr Matthews.

  “Mr Matthews is not at home, madam,” answered the precise voice.

  “Oh!” said Stella. “When do you expect him back?”

  “I couldn't say, madam. Can I take a message?”

  “No, it doesn't—Yes! Ask him to ring Miss Stella Matthews up as soon as he comes in, will you, please?”

  She put the receiver down again, and turned to find that Guy had followed her out of the library, and was standing staring at her.

  “What on earth do you want with Randall?” Guy demanded.

  Stella flushed. “He's the head of the family, and he said he was going to see this through. Besides, he knows something.”

  “He'd like us to think he does,” said Guy scornfully. “And if you can tell me what the devil could make him want to dispose of Aunt Harriet you're darned clever. I thought he might have had a hand in uncle's death, though I still can't see how, but setting aside the fact that he wasn't here when aunt died, why should he do it?”

  “I don't know. I mean, I don't think he did do it. But everything's like a nightmare, and at least he's sane.” She gripped her hands together nervously. “Why did you come out with all that rubbish about Aunt Harriet's money?”

  Guy laughed. “Well, it's perfectly true, and it's bound to come out, so why should I try and conceal it?”

  “Guy, you won't do anything silly, will you?” she asked anxiously.

  “I'm not likely to. You keep your hair on,” he said, and walked away towards the morning-room.

  It was not until after dinner that Randall rang up. As soon as she heard his soft voice Stella said: “Oh, it's you at last! Where have you been? I—”

  “At the races, sweetheart. And what do you want with my unworthy self?”

  “Randall, the most ghastly thing's happened. Aunt Harriet's dead!”

  There was a slight pause. “Aunt Harriet is what?” asked Randall.

  “Dead,” Stella repeated. “This morning. And they think it's poison.” The silence that greeted this pronouncement was so prolonged that she said: “Are you there? They think she was poisoned, I tell you!”

  “I heard you,” said Randall. “I am somewhat taken aback. Who are "they", may I ask?”

  “Deryk Fielding, and of course the police. I can't tell you it all over the phone. There's a post-mortem being done.”

  “And what, my lamb, do you expect me to do?” inquired Randall.

  “You said you were going to see the thing through!”

  “What a rash statement!”

  “Couldn't you come down?” Stella said impatiently.

  “I could, but I'm not going to. Tomorrow I might. Do you want me?”

  “I want you to clear it up. You said —”

  “My sweet, you can forget what I said. If Aunt Harriet has been poisoned, nothing I said is of any value. I will come down and see you tomorrow.”

  With this she had to be content. She did not tell her mother that Randall was coming, and she hoped that his visit might take place whilst Mrs Matthews was at Church. But Mrs Matthews returned from Church, bringing Edward Rumbold with her before any sign of Randall had been seen, and it was not until nearly half past twelve that the Mercedes swung into the drive and Randall came into the house.

  Mrs Matthews, who did not look as though she had slept much during the night, was describing to Mr Rumbold the atmosphere of peace which she said had descended on her in Church, but she broke off as Randall entered the room, and looked anything but peaceful. “Randall!” she said. “I suppose one might have expected you.”

  “One might, but apparently one didn't,” said Randall. “Do not let me interrupt you, my dear aunt. I am always interested in your spiritual experiences.”

  “Matthews, your aunt has had a great shock,” Rumbold said quietly.

  “We have all had a great shock,” agreed Randall. “Are you very much upset, my dear Aunt Zoë? I am sure that well-meaning Superintendent is.”

  “What makes you think that?” inquired Rumbold.

  “Well,” said Randall, critically surveying his own tie in the mirror over the mantelpiece, “when last I saw him he was busily concocting a case against a person unknown.”

  “What do you mean?” Stella asked. “Are you just trying to be funny?”

  “My precious! At this solemn hour?” Randall met her eyes in the mirror, and looked beyond her reflection to where he could see Mrs Matthews, seated beside Rumbold on the sofa.

  “Then what—who is the unknown person?”

  “Don't be silly, darling,” said Randall, still not satisfied with the set of his tie. “Naturally, no one knows. His name is Hyde -John Hyde. Do you know a john Hyde, Aunt Zoë?”

  “No, Randall, I do not, nor do I pretend to know what you are talking about.”

  “What has this John Hyde of yours to do with Miss Matthews' death?” asked Rumbold. “Who is he? I mean —”

  “That is what the police want to know,” said Randall. “They have been hunting for him high and low. Not that he had anything to do with my poor Aunt Harriet's untimely end. He's dead, you know.”

  “He's dead?” repeated Rumbold.

  “Or, rather,” pursued Randall, “a notice of his death appeared in the paper several days ago.”

  Rumbold stared at him. “A notice of his death appeared in the paper?” he said. “But—My dear Matthews, what are you talking about? First you say the police are hunting for this person called Hyde, and then you say that a notice of his death has been published. Which do you mean?”

  “Oh, both!” said Randall, turning away from the mirror and facing him. “The police are so disbelieving. They don't think Hyde is dead. In fact, unless I am much mistaken they suspect him of having murdered Uncle Gregory and gone into hiding. So you see, Aunt Harriet's death must be very upsetting to them. It abolishes Hyde.”

  Stella, who had been following this dialogue in some bewilderment, said: “But what has someone we've never even heard of got to do with it? I mean, what had he to do with uncle, and why should he have murdered him?”

  “Why, indeed?” said R
andall.

  “Yes, but what makes the police suspect him?”

  “Well, he's vanished, you see.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Darling, don't keep on saying "yes, but." Use your intelligence. The police don't like people to vanish. It isn't seemly.”

  “That's all very well,” said Rumbold, “but the police must have had some reason for suspecting him other than his disappearance—or death, whichever it was.”

  “Oh, they had,” agreed Randall. “They discovered that uncle had had dealings with him. So they went to call on him, and he wasn't there. Then they went to look for his papers, and they weren't there either.”

  “Weren't where?” asked Rumbold.

  “In a safe-deposit. All very mysterious. You ask the Superintendent.”

  Mrs Matthews heaved a weary sigh. “I can't see what any of this rigmarole has to do with your aunt's death, Randall.”

  “As usual, my dear Aunt Zoë, you hit the nail on the head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

  “Then why do you waste time discussing it?” she said. “Surely —”

  “Just to create a diversion,” said Randall sweetly. “But I'll discuss Aunt Harriet's death instead if you prefer it. When and how did she die?”

  Mrs Matthews shuddered. “I am sorry, Randall. I am afraid I can't bring myself to talk about it.”

  “Then my little cousin Stella shall tell me all about it,” said Randall, and turned to her. “Would you like to drive slowly round the heath, my pet, and unburden yourself to me?”

  “All right,” Stella said, after a moment's hesitation. “You've got to know, anyway. I'll go and put a hat on.”

  Guy looked up quickly. “Look here, Stella —” he began, and then stopped, uncertain how to proceed.

  Randall said kindly: “You mustn't be shy of me, little cousin. Naturally you want to warn her not to say anything indiscreet.”

  This left Guy without a word to say. He glared at Randall, who smiled and opened the door for Stella to pass out.

  She did not keep him waiting long while she put on her hat, but soon came out to the car, and got in beside him. “Thank God to be out of it for half-an-hour!” she said. “It's absolutely awful, Randall.”

  “Yes, I didn't flatter myself you came for the pleasure of my company,” he returned, letting in the clutch.

  “Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.”

  “My sweet, you're not yourself. You mustn't let it get on your nerves, you know.”

  She gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, it is on them. You've got to help, Randall.”

  He did not answer for a moment, and then he said with a marked drawl: “What leads you to suppose that I can help?”

  “You did. You practically said you knew something.”

  “Your imagination runs away with you, my pet. I said I didn't want the mystery to be solved.”

  “Well, it's got to be!” said Stella fiercely.

  “I'm very much afraid that it may be,” said Randall.

  “Randall, what is it you know? Why do you say you're afraid it may be? You didn't kill Aunt Harriet!”

  “Certainly not,” he replied calmly. “In fact, I regard Aunt Harriet's death as an entirely needless complication. You had better tell me how it happened.”

  “Well, she said she didn't feel well at breakfast. Dinner the evening before had been about the worst ever, and Guy suggested it might have something to do with it.”

  “By way of being helpful, or mere airy persiflage?” inquired Randall.

  “Airy persiflage. Your style,” said Stella.

  “You must learn to appreciate me better, darling. My style is unique.”

  “All right. Just as well if it is. Anyway, aunt was annoyed and she ate some bacon, by way of proving that the sardine hadn't upset her.”

  “One moment,” interposed Randall. “I like to have things clear. Does the sardine play a major part in the story? Because if so I should wish to have its role carefully explained to me.”

  “No, it was the savoury at dinner, that's all.”

  “If it was really all, Aunt Harriet's economy must have reached a staggering pitch,” commented Randall.

  Stella gave a spurt of laughter, but became instantly sober again. “Randall, you mustn't joke. It isn't funny. And it's beastly of you to laugh at—at a thing like this.”

  “Acquit me, darling. I only wanted to raise a laugh out of you.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”

  He smiled. “Such a solemn Stella. I don't like it. But go on with this entrancing story.”

  “Well, there isn't much more. Apparently she felt worse after breakfast, and went up to tell Mummy she wasn't well. Mummy put her back to bed, and gave her some dope, and—and she felt sleepy. And Mummy looked into her room about twelve o'clock, only she seemed to be fast asleep, so Mummy didn't disturb her, and at lunch-time I went up to her, and—and she was dead.”

  Randall shot the car forward past a lorry, and slackened speed again. “And now tell me all the bits you've left out,” he said.

  “I—I haven't, really. Except that I can't help feeling that the police—think Mummy had something to do with it.”

  “They do not seem to be alone in that belief,” remarked Randall.

  “What do you mean?” said Stella.

  “If you are not afraid that your sainted parent had a hand in this, what are you worrying about, my love? Tell me the whole truth!”

  “I'm not afraid she did it! I'm not, I tell you! I'm only afraid that it's going to look black against her, and I don't know what to do. She washed up the glass she gave the medicine in, and she gave orders no one was to go into aunt's room. It was what anyone would have done, Randall! but the police—made it sound fishy, and Mummy—I think Mummy saw that it did, because she said that she couldn't remember who'd washed the glass, and it was obvious that she did remember. And she kept on saying she was sure aunt had had a stroke, and—and finding reasons for it. She was worst with Deryk, but—but I don't trust him, and I'm afraid he may have told the police how she fought against having a post-mortem. Supposing they arrest her?”

  “Supposing we wait and see whether Aunt Harriet was poisoned or not?” countered Randall.

  “Randall, why won't you tell what you know?” said Stella imploringly. “Deryk wouldn't have said that if he hadn't been pretty sure. And if she was poisoned, don't you see that Mummy, or Guy (or me, I suppose), are the only people who had any motive at all?”

  “I do,” said Randall. “But if you would all of you contrive to keep your heads, you may yet escape the gallows.”

  “Don't!” she said sharply. “I thought at first you were going to be decent, and take it seriously. I might have known you'd only sneer!”

  “Strange as it may seem to you, my love, I am taking it extremely seriously.”

  She looked curiously at him. “Were you fond of Aunt Harriet?”

  “Not in the least. But I infinitely preferred her alive to dead.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because, my dear Stella, by dying Aunt Harriet has created a damnably awkward situation!” he answered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rest of Sunday passed uncomfortably. Randall left the Poplars soon after lunch, Mrs Matthews retired to rest, and her children, finding it impossible to occupy themselves indoors, went for a walk. Mrs Matthews remarked three times during the course of the evening that she felt quite lost without her sister-in-law, and when Guy, whose nerves were badly frayed, said caustically that he had been under the impression that life under the same roof with Harriet had become insupportable to her, she read him a lecture on the folly of exaggeration, and went to bed proclaiming herself not angry, but merely hurt. Stella then took her brother to task for having started a quarrel, and Guy, announcing that a little more from her (or anyone else) would be productive of the direst results, slammed out of the room. After that Stella too went to bed, and was trouble
d with bad dreams till morning.

  Guy's praiseworthy resolve to go to work as usual had, he felt, to be abandoned. He came down to breakfast looking pale and heavy-eyed, drank a great deal of rather strong tea, and crumbled a piece of toast. His answers to Stella's remarks were monosyllabic, so she presently gave up trying to talk to him, finished her breakfast, and went off to interview the cook.

  Mrs Beecher added her mite to the day's ills by greeting her with a month's notice. She and Beecher, she said, were very sorry, but they were feeling Unsettled.

  “Well, I can't say I'm surprised,” replied Stella candidly.

  “No, miss, and I'm sure it's not your fault. But one's got to think of oneself, when all's said and done, and right or wrong, we don't neither of us care to stay in a house where people drop down dead with poison six days out of the seven. “Tisn't natural.”

  “No,” agreed Stella, too dispirited to point out a somewhat gross overstatement. “Is anything wanted in the town?”

  Mrs Beecher thereupon produced a sheet of paper, which seemed to be entirely covered with writing, and said there were just one or two little things she needed.

  Stella took the list, and went upstairs to consult her mother.

  Mrs Matthews was just about to get up when her daughter entered the room. She, like Guy, looked rather heavy-eyed. She said that she had had a bad night, and upon being shown Mrs Beecher's shopping list, moaned faintly, and implored Stella not to worry her with that.

  “There's worse than this,” said Stella, pocketing the list. “The Beechers have given notice. Leaving at the end of the month. Shall I call in at the Registry Office?”

  Mrs Matthews said that it made her sad to think of all the people in the world who never gave a thought to anyone but themselves. However, after moralising in this strain for about five minutes, she remembered that she had always meant to get rid of the Beechers if Gregory had left the house to her, so really it was a blessing in disguise. Stella left her planning the new staff, and went off to do the shopping.

  When she returned, nearly an hour later, she found Guy pacing up and down the hall. She commented unfavourably on this, but he turned a strained, pale face towards her, and said abruptly: “The police are here. She was poisoned.”