Behold Here's Poison (13 page)

'Perhaps the very thing we did find. That letter of Lupton's.'

Hannasyde considered this for a moment. 'It might have been that. It's quite probable, if old Matthews had taken him into his confidence. But what is there in this drawer?'

'You may be right in thinking it is something which is not in the drawer.'

'I may. There is just one thing that strikes me as unusual: there's practically no old correspondence, either here or at Matthews' office.'

'Some men habitually tear up letters as soon as they've answered them,' said Giles. 'Are you suggesting that someone's been at work amongst Matthews papers?'

'I'm suggesting nothing,' replied Hannasyde. 'But it does seem to me that if Matthews destroyed all his letters himself, it must have amounted to a mania with him.'

'The fell hand of Randall,' said Giles, with an amused look.

Hannasyde smiled reluctantly. 'I know you think I've got him on the brain. I ought to tell you that I can't find that he came anywhere near this place between May 12th and May 15th.' He added ruefully: 'You're quite right: I am suspicious of him, and I'm suspicious of his alibis. They're so good that they might have been created on purpose. But I tell you frankly, Mr Carrington, I don't see how he can possibly have committed this murder.'

'You sound regretful,' said Giles, laughing.

'No, not that. Just plain worried. Groping about in a fog, and all the time I've got an uneasy feeling I'm on the wrong track. If I could only discover the medium through which the poison was administered! It may have been the whiskey-and-soda Guy Matthews poured out for his uncle; Matthews may have bathed his scratched hand with poisoned lotion—but all the lotion I found in this house was a brand-new bottle of Pond's Extract with the paper sealing the cork down still intact. It may have been the tonic—and the bottle was smashed. I've racked my brains to think of something else—something that might have been doctored at any time, perhaps days before Matthews' death. Well, I thought of aspirin tablets, but he didn't use drugs. Hemingway put all the servants through a hair-sieve, so to speak, but he couldn't discover that Matthews had eaten or drunk anything the rest of the family hadn't, barring that whiskey, and the tonic.' He broke off, and rose. 'Well, it's no use sitting and talking to you about it, Mr Carrington. I've got to get on with the job, and I've no doubt you're itching to get back to town.'

'I don't know about itching, exactly, but I certainly ought to go,' said Giles, glancing at his watch. 'I'm glad I don't leave Lupton in the role of Chief Suspect,' he added with a twinkle. 'I'm sorry for the poor wretch.'

'Oh, he's a suspect all right,' Hannasyde answered. 'I shall have to check up closely on him. But it's too clever, Mr Carrington. If Lupton did it, it must have been on the spur of the moment, and because he was desperate. Well, I may be wrong, but it doesn't look like that to me. It's been carefully planned, this murder, down to the very poison that was used. The ordinary man doesn't hit on a thing like nicotine on the spur of the moment.'

'I see. You think research is indicated.'

'I do. Research, and a cool, clever brain,' said Hannasyde, putting his pocket-book away, and moving across the thick carpet to the door. He opened it, and nearly collided with Miss Matthews. 'I beg your pardon!'

She was holding a bowl of flowers between her hands, and said in her hurried way: 'Oh, what a start you gave me, Superintendent! Just going to replenish my flowers. I always do it in the cloakroom, because it makes such a mess.'

She ended on one of her breathless, inane laughs, and sped on through the baize-door at the end of the passage. The two men's eyes met. 'She was listening,' said Giles softly.

'Yes,' replied Hannasyde non-commitally. 'She has a reputation for being extremely inquisitive.'

Chapter Seven

Randall, leaving the study in the wake of his aunt, did not follow her to the library, where he could ear her voice raised in denunciation of himself, but strolled instead to the foot of the stairs, and after a brief glance round the empty hall went up, not hurriedly, but soft-footed. There was no one on the upper landing. The first door led into Gregory Matthews' bedroom, and was not locked. Randall turned the handle, and went in, and quietly closed the door behind him.

The room, which was large, and gloomy with mahogany, had the unfriendly look that uninhabited apartments wear. The bed was draped by a dust-sheet; the windows were shut; and the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, and even the mantelpiece were swept bare of all personal belongings.

Randall glanced about him, and presently moved towards the wardrobe, a huge, triple-doored piece that took up nearly the whole of one wall. Gregory Matthews' clothes were neatly arranged in it, but they did not seem to concern Randall, for after a brief survey he closed the doors again, and went across to the dressing-table. There was nothing in either of its drawers, except a watch and chain, and a box containing cuff-links and studs, and the chest at the opposite side of the room contained only piles of underclothing.

Randall shrugged, and walked over to the door which communicated with his uncle's bathroom. Here the same barrenness met his gaze; not so much as a razor strop had been left to remind him of his uncle's erstwhile presence. He went at once to where a small medicine chest hung, but it was quite empty. He slowly shut it, and turned away towards the door leading out on to the landing. He opened it, and stepped out of the room just as Stella came running lightly up the stairs.

She checked at sight of him, and stared, a frown slowly gathering on her brow. Randall met the stare with his faint, bland smile, and closed the bathroom door behind him. 'Good-morning, my precious,' he said.

She remained with her hand still resting on the big wooden knob at the head of the banisters. 'What were you doing in there?' she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

'Just looking over the scene of the crime,' he answered. He held out his open cigarette-case. 'Will you smoke, my love?'

'No, thanks. What were you looking for?'

He raised his brows. 'Did I say I was looking for something?'

'I know you were.'

'Well, whatever it was I was disappointed,' said Randall. 'Someone has been busy.'

'Aunt Harriet turned everything out the day uncle died,' Stella said shortly.

Randall lit a cigarette, and said in a meditative tone: 'I often wonder whether Aunt Harriet is the fool she appears to be, or not'

'Good heavens, you don't think she did it to destroy evidence, do you?' exclaimed Stella, unable to believe in such forethought.

'I am quite unable to make up my mind on that point,' Randall replied. 'Cast your little feather-weight of a brain backward, my sweet. What did our dear Aunt Harriet take out of uncle's medicine-chest?'

'Oh, I don't know! All sorts of things. Corn-plaster, and iodine, and Eno's Fruit Salts.'

'And uncle's tonic, of course,' said Randall, watching the blue smoke rise up from the end of his cigarette.

'No, that was broken. New bottle, too.'

He raised his eyes rather quickly. 'Broken,' he repeated. 'Was it indeed? Well, well! and who broke it, my little one?'

'No one. Uncle must have left it on the shelf over the washbasin, and the wind blew it over.'

'Any questions asked about it?' inquired Randall.

'Do you mean by the police? Yes, I think so. Not to me.'

Randall sighed. 'I wonder who regrets Aunt Gertrude's officiousness most,' he said. 'The Matthews family, or Superintendent Hannasyde?'

'I don't know, but talking of Aunt Gertrude, what on earth have you been saying to her? She says she's never been so insulted in her life.'

'I shouldn't think she has,' said Randall.

'What did you say?' persisted Stella.

'Merely that if I were married to her I should keep several mistresses,' Randall replied.

She could not help giving a gurgle of laughter, but she said: 'Well, really, I do think that's about the limit! It's about the rudest thing you could say.'

'I couldn't think of anything ruder at the time,' acknowledged Randall. 'It got rid of her most successfully.'

'You can't go about being filthily rude to people just to get rid of them!'

'I can and do,' he replied imperturbably.

'You do, yes,' Stella said hotly. 'You're the most poisonous-tongued person I know!'

'So you have often informed me,' bowed Randall. He regarded her with a curious smile. 'You can't bear me, can you, little Stella? What have I done?'

'Nothing. You don't,' Stella said contemptuously. 'You just say spiteful things, and drift about like a lounge lizard. I used to hate you when we first came to live with uncle.'

'My darling, you still do.'

'I don't think twice about you,' said Stella. 'You were horrid to me when I was a kid —'

'A gawky, clumsy flapper,' murmured Randall, closing his eyes. 'I remember.'

'I wasn't!'

'Also callow, ignorant, and without grace.'

She reddened. 'All girls are at that age!'

'Possibly, but I see no reason why I should be kind to them.'

'You're not kind to anyone. You were beastly to Guy, and you still are.'

'I am but human, my love. If he will rise to my bait, bait he shall have.'

'I wouldn't mind betting you used to pull flies' wings off when you were a boy,' said Stella with deep loathing.

'One of my favourite pastimes.'

'And—if it interests you—I very much object to your habit of sneering at my mother!'

His eyelids drooped. 'At my clever Aunt Zoë? How you misjudge me! I am quite her most appreciative admirer.'

'That'll do, thanks!'

He raised his brows. 'There's no pleasing you, sweetheart. What can I find to say about the boy-friend?'

'You can leave Deryk alone! He and I are engaged to be married.'

A malicious glint came into his eyes. 'Oh, is that still on?'

She reddened, hesitated for a moment, and then said bluntly: 'Now look here, Randall! If you think you're getting a rise out of me you're mistaken. I suppose you've got hold of some silly, exaggerated story about Deryk and the Fosters. You would! It's perfectly true that he partnered Maisie Foster to the Hopes' dance, but considering I couldn't go, and he's known Maisie quite as long as he's known me, I'm not—strangely enough—jealous about it.'

Randall's smile broadened. 'I seem to have got a better rise out of you than I had hoped for, darling. This is all news to me.'

She bit her lip. 'Then what were you hinting at?' 'Oh, nothing, nothing!' said Randall airily. 'Tell me more of this rival. Where does she live?'

'She lives on Park Terrace, and she is not a rival.'

He opened his eyes. 'It sounds very promising. An extremely well-to-do locality. I hope she's an only child?'

She was spared the necessity of answering by the arrival of her brother, who at this moment came along the landing from his own room. Randall promptly transferred his attention to him, and said with an assumption of artless surprise: 'Well, well! Can it really be my little cousin? Are you now a gentleman of leisure, Guy, or has the firm of Brooke and Matthews gone into liquidation?'

Guy, who was looking worn, and rather pale, scowled at him. 'No, it hasn't. You're not the only one who has a right to be here!'

'A little out of spirits?' murmured Randall. 'Not quite our bright self today?'

'I don't see how anyone can be bright with a thing like this hanging over us all,' said Guy jerkily.

'I contrive to maintain my usual equanimity,' said Randall. 'Have a cigarette: very soothing to the nerves.'

Guy took one mechanically, but stood with it between his fingers until Randall, his brows lifting, produced his lighter, and snapped it open. Guy gave a start. 'Oh, thanks!' he said awkwardly, and bent to light the cigarette. As he straightened his back again, he said: 'Have they finished downstairs?'

'Do you mean the police?' inquired Randall. 'Should I otherwise be here?'

Guy glanced at him and away again. 'They didn't find anything, did they? There wasn't anything to find.' He paused interrogatively, but as Randall made no remark said angrily: 'You can answer, can't you?'

'I thought you had spared me the trouble,' said Randall blandly. 'You said there was nothing to find. I expect you know.'

'Damn you, I haven't been tampering with uncle's papers!'

'Guy!' said his sister sharply. 'Don't be such a fool! Can't you see he's only trying to get a rise out of you?'

Guy gave a short laugh, and said: 'It's what he thinks, all the same.' He hesitated, and looked at Randall again. 'What line are they taking? What does that Superintendent-fellow make of it?'

'My poor child, do you imagine that I am in his confidence?' said Randall.

'I thought you might have gathered something. They're baffled, aren't they? I don't see how they can be anything else. There's nothing to show who did it. Anybody might have, but how are they going to prove which it was?'

'I haven't the slightest idea,' replied Randall. 'I imagine it might be helpful if they discover how the nicotine was administered, but I gather they haven't yet arrived at that. There may, of course, be some startling disclosures at the inquest tomorrow. I hope you've learned your piece, by the way?'

'Oh, you're thinking of that blasted whiskey-and-soda, are you?' said Guy. 'So easy for me to doctor it with the whole family sitting round!'

'Well, I don't know,' said Randall pensively. 'I think I could have done it.'

'You! I daresay you could. Probably would have if you'd had half a chance.'

Randall gave his soft laugh. 'But I hadn't half a chance, little cousin. I wasn't here. I'm afraid you'll have to rule me out. A pity, of course, but there it is.'

'Oh, do shut up!' begged Stella. 'What's the use of going on like this? It makes everything ten times worse than it is already. I can't see what you're worrying about, Guy. We know you didn't do it, and if the police think you did at least they can't do anything about it, because they've nothing to go on. I mean, they can't even test the glass uncle drank out of, because it was washed up days before they came here.'

'Guy isn't worrying about that,' Randall said, watching Guy's face from under his lashes. 'Perhaps it wasn't in the whiskey-and-soda.'

Guy's mouth twitched. 'Of course it wasn't. I'm not exactly worrying about anything, but this—this atmosphere of suspicion gets on my nerves. My own belief is that the whole thing will fizzle out for lack of evidence. After all, the police don't solve every crime by any means.'

'I wish to heaven Aunt Gertrude hadn't started the rotten business,' remarked Stella.

'God, I could strangle her!' Guy said, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion. He saw them both looking at him, and forced a laugh. 'Well, I'd better go down, and see what they're up to,' he said, and brushed past his sister at the head of the stairs, and ran down.

Randall watched him go, carefully put out the stub of his cigarette in a bowl of ferns at his elbow, and said: 'Dear me!'