Chapter One

It was going to be a fine day. There was a white mist curling away in wreaths over the Heath that told Mary, standing on the half-landing with the dustpan in her hand, and gazing out through the tall window, that it would be sunny and really warm by lunch-time. She would be able to wear the blue voile after all, in spite of Rose's gloomy forebodings. Rose said that it always rained on anybody's half-day. Well, it wasn't going to rain today, not if Mary knew the signs.

She leaned up against the window, watching the mist, approving the heavy dew that lay like a grey sheet over the lawn in front of the house.

It was early. The Heath, which later on would be scattered over with children, and nurses pushing perambulators, seemed quite deserted, nor was there any traffic upon the road that lay between the iron gates of the poplars and the edge of the Heath. Craning her neck, Mary could obtain a glimpse of the next-door house through a gap in the trees. Curtains still drawn on the backstairs, she noted. Well, she didn't blame the girls at Holly Lodge, she was sure. If your master and mistress went away to the seaside you were entitled to take your ease. Not but what those girls were a lazy lot of sluts, come to think of it. Common, too. Like mistress like maid, said Rose, and that was true enough. She wasn't any class, Mrs Rumbold.

Mary turned her head, transferring her gaze from Holly Lodge to the house on the other side of the Poplars. It was a smaller house, and she could not see much of it, but she noticed that the garage doors were open. That meant that the doctor had been called out early. It was a shame the way people sent for the doctor at all hours, and half the time for nothing more serious than an attack of indigestion, so Miss Stella said. A real gentleman he was, too, and ever so handsome! She didn't wonder at Miss Stella being sweet on him. It was a pity the Master had taken such a dislike to him. For they all knew in the servants' hall that he had, just as they knew about the trouble with Mr Guy, who wanted money for that queer business he ran with that Mr Brooke, and whom the Master wanted to send off to South America. You'd have to be a pretty fool if you didn't know most of what was going on in this house, what with the Master going in off the deep end and the doctor being called in for his Blood Pressure; and Miss Harriet coming out with bits of talk to anybody, even the kitchen-maid; Mrs Matthews taking to her bed because of all the worry about poor Mr Guy; and Mr Guy himself talking it all over with Miss Stella without so much as bothering to see if anyone was listening. Oh no, there were precious few secrets at the Poplars! Too many people cooped up together, thought Mary, vigorously sweeping the last six stairs. It never did to have two families under the same roof: there was bound to be a lot of squabbling, especially when you got an old girl like Miss Harriet behaving sometimes as though she was downright simple, and at other times showing you she was as sharp as a needle, and as mean as - Mary couldn't think of anything as mean as Miss Harriet. Potty, that's what she was. You'd only got to see her collecting all the little bits of soap left over, and using them up herself, just as though she hadn't a penny to bless herself with. Regular old magpie, she was. Now, Mrs Matthews wasn't like that, give her her due. She was a nuisance all right, what with her glasses of hot water, and trays up to her room, but she wasn't one to go poking her nose into storecupboards. You didn't really mind running round after Mrs Matthews, waiting on her hand and foot like she expected, because she always spoke nicely, and behaved like a lady. Nor you didn't mind Miss Stella, neither, in spite of the way she never put anything away, and was always wanting you to do things for her which weren't your work at all, properly speaking. And Mr Guy was that handsome it was a pleasure to wait on him. But when it came to Miss Harriet and the Master things were different. It was queer them being brother and sister, thought Mary, going slowly upstairs again to collect all the shoes which had been put out to be cleaned. Not a bit alike, they weren't. Mrs Lupton, now, from Fairview, over the other side of the Heath, you'd know anywhere for the Master's sister. She had the same domineering ways, though you weren't scared of her like you were scared of the Master. With the Master things had to be just as he wanted them, or there was trouble, and when the Master was angry you felt as though your knees were stuffed with cotton-wool. They were all of them scared of him, reflected Mary, picking up his shoes from outside his bedroom-door; even Mrs Matthews, though if anyone could get round him she could.

Mrs Matthews' shoes were the next to be collected, high-heeled, expensive shoes with Bond Street written all over them, thought Mary, pausing to admire them. The money Mrs Matthews must spend on her clothes! That was a sure sign she knew how to manage the Master, because it was common knowledge that her husband (him as was the Master's youngest brother) had left her pretty badly off. Good job for her she was so nice-looking and attractive, because though you couldn't ever call the Master mean you wouldn't catch him providing for a sister-in-law he didn't like, having her and her children to live with him, and all.

Yes, and didn't it get under Miss Harriet's skin, them being in the house and behaving as though money was no object like they did, thought Mary, picking up Miss Matthews' low-heeled, trodden-over shoes of black glace, and tucking them under her arm. There wasn't much love lost between her and Mrs Matthews, though to do her justice the old skinflint seemed to like Mr Guy and Miss Stella well enough.

Suede shoes outside Mr Guy's door; smart, they were, but a nuisance to clean. She'd have to do them, she supposed, because the under-gardener would be sure to put polish on them by mistake.

And lastly Miss Stella's shoes, two pairs of them, the brogues she wore on the Heath, and the blue kid shoes she went to town in.

She put all the shoes in her apron, and carried them down the back-stairs to the scullery. Cook, Mrs Beecher, was in the kitchen, and called her in for a cup of tea. It made all the difference to you, thought Mary, being in a place where the cook was good-tempered. She went into the kitchen, and took her place at the table between Beecher and Rose. Rose was sitting with her elbows on the table, and her cup between her hands, eagerly recounting what had passed between the Master and Miss Stella in the library last night.

“… And then he told her straight he wouldn't have Dr Fielding making up to her under his roof. The names he called the doctor you wouldn't believe! And then he said that bit I told you, about the doctor being a fool with no prospects, and if you ask me it was that which set Mrs Matthews against the doctor, because against him she is, and no one'll make me believe different.”

“You didn't ought to listen to what wasn't meant for your ears,” said Mrs Beecher.

“It does seem a shame about the doctor and Miss Stella,” said Mary. “I am sure no one could be more gentlemanlike.”

“Ah, there's more to it than that,” replied Beecher, passing his cup across to his wife. “They say he's a bit fond of the bottle. Not that I've ever seen him the worse for wear myself, but there's no smoke without a fire.”

“That I won't believe!” declared Mrs Beecher roundly. “And what's more I'm surprised at you mentioning it, Beecher!”

Rose, avidly absorbing this fresh piece of scandal, said: “There you are, then! and no wonder Mrs Matthews had one of her nerve-attacks! When I saw her I thought to myself at once—”

“Then you thought wrong,” interposed Mrs Beecher repressively. “I haven't ever held with Mrs Matthews' nerves, and no more I ever shall, but if she had an attack, which I doubt, it wasn't along of Miss Stella whom she doesn't care two pins for, if you was to ask me, but because of Mr Guy being shipped off to Brazil.”

“Oh, the Master isn't ever going to do that, not really, is he?” exclaimed Mary, aghast.

“So I believe,” said Mrs Beecher, rising ponderously and moving towards the stove. “Not that I'm one for nosing into other people's business, but I had it from Miss Harriet as long ago as last Thursday. It's time the Early Teas went up. Hand me over the caddy, Rose, there's a good girl.”

Rose complied with this request, and stood waiting while Mrs Beecher filled three little teapots, and one glass tumbler in a silver holder. “You might carry Miss Stella's tray up for me, dear,” said Rose to Mary, receiving the tumbler of hot water from Mrs Beecher, and placing it upon a small tray.

Mary finished her own tea in two gulps, and got up. She had her own work to do, and plenty of it, but if you were only an under-housemaid it paid you to keep in with the upper servants. She picked up Miss Stella's tray, and followed Rose up the back-stairs, Beecher bringing up the rear with the Master's and Mr Guy's trays poised on his capable hands.

Miss Stella was not awake, and, as usual, she had left her clothes scattered about the floor. Mary drew back the curtains, tidied the clothes, and slipped out of the room again. Miss Stella wouldn't thank you for waking her.

Mr Guy's tray was reposing on the table in the hall, and Rose was still in Mrs Matthews' room. Mary could hear Mrs Matthews' slightly plaintive voice raised behind the shut door. She was just about to go and fill the hot-water cans, when the door of the Master's room opened, and Beecher came out rather quickly.

Mary stared at him. There was a queer, scared look on his face. “Anything wrong, Mr Beecher?” she asked.

He passed his tongue between his lips, and answered in a shaken voice: “Yes. It's the Master. He's dead.”

Her lips parted, but she could find nothing to say. A kaleidoscope of impressions flashed through her brain. It was shocking, awful, and yet thrilling. There might be an Inquest. She didn't want to have anything to do with it; she wouldn't be out of it for worlds.

Rose came out of Mrs Matthews' room. “Well!” she said. “Anyone would think there was no work to be done in this house! Where are my cans?”

Mary found her voice. “Oh, Rose!” she faltered. “The Master's dead!”

“Somebody's got to tell Them,” said Beecher, glancing at the four shut doors. “I don't know who.”

Rose solved this problem for him. She broke into noisy tears, not because she had been fond of the Master, or disliked the thought of a death in the house, but because she was startled. The sound of her hysterical sobs brought the ready tears to Mary's eyes too. It also brought Miss Matthews out into the hall, with her grey hair in curlers, and an aged flannel dressing-gown huddled round her. She had forgotten her glasses, and she peered shortsightedly at the group before her.

“What is the matter? Rose—is that you, Rose? Disgraceful! If you've broken any of the china it will come out of your wages, and it's no use crying about it. The breakages in this house—”

“Oh, madam!” gulped Mary. “Oh, madam, it's the Master!”

The door next to Miss Matthews' opened. Stella stood yawning on the threshold in peach silk pyjamas, and with her short hair ruffled up like a halo about her face. “What on earth's all the row about?” she inquired fretfully.

“Stella! Your dressing-gown!” exclaimed her aunt.

“I'm all right. Oh, do shut up, Rose! What is it?”

Both maids were now sobbing gustily. Beecher said: “It's the Master, miss. He's dead.”

Miss Matthews gave a shriek, but Stella, staring at Beecher for a moment, said: “Rot! I don't believe it.”

“It's true, miss. He's — he's cold.”

Somehow that seemed funny. Stella gave an uncertain giggle.

Her aunt said: “How you can stand there and laugh —! I'm sure I don't understand you modern girls, and what is more I don't want to. Not that I believe a word of it. I shall go and see for myself. Where are my glasses? Mary! my glasses!”

“I'll go,” said Stella, walking across the hall.

“Stella, not in your pyjamas!” screamed Miss Matthews.

Stella began to laugh again, trying to stifle the unbecoming sound by biting her lips.

Her uncle's room was in the front of the house, separated from his sister-in-law's by a bathroom. Beecher had drawn back the curtains, and set the early morning tea-tray down on a table beside the bed. It was evident, even to Stella, looking on death for the first time, that Gregory Matthews would never drink tea again.

He was lying on his back in an uncomfortably rigid attitude, his arms tossed outside the bedclothes, the fingers gripping the sheet as though in a last convulsion. His eyes were open, the pupils contracted. Stella stood looking down at him, her face slowly whitening. She heard her aunt's querulous voice, her footstep in the hall, and moved towards the door. “I say, Aunt Harriet!” she said jerkily. “Don't come! It's beastly!”

Miss Matthews, however, fastening her pincenez on her nose with trembling hands, pushed past her niece into the room, and walked up to the bed. “Oh, he's dead!” she said superfluously, and recoiled. “It's his blood pressure. I knew it would happen! He ought never to have eaten that duck, and it's no use anyone blaming me, because I ordered cutlets for him, and if he wouldn't eat them nobody can say it was my fault. Oh dear, oh dear, he does look dreadful! I wish he hadn't gone like that. We may have had our differences, but blood's thicker than water, say what you will! And you'd never think it, but he was a dear little boy! Oh, whatever are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” said Stella, taking her arm, and pulling her towards the door. “Let's get out of this room, anyway. Oh aunt, don't, for God's sake!”

Miss Matthews allowed herself to be led away, but continued to weep. Stella, unable to feel that Gregory Matthews' nature when a little boy could compensate her aunt for all the subsequent years of strife, was impatient of this facile grief, and thankfully gave her into Mary's charge.

Rose, still gulping, quavered a message from Mrs Matthews: Miss Stella was to go to her mother at once.

Mrs Matthews was reclining against her pillows in a most becoming bed jacket, and had evidently had the presence of mind to wipe the expensive night-cream from her face, and apply a dusting of powder. She turned her head as Stella came into the room, and held out a wavering hand. “Oh, my dear child!” she said in an extinguished voice. “Poor Gregory! It has given me a terrible shock. I had a feeling when Rose brought my hot water.”

“Aunt Harriet says it must have been the duck he ate for dinner,” said Stella, still on the verge of a giggle.

Mrs Matthews gave a faint, pained sigh. “No one knows dear Harriet's good points better than I do,” she remarked, “but one can't help being a little sad that her first thoughts in face of a thing like this should be still of mundane things. Do you know, darling, that when Rose told me what had happened I could only think of those beautiful words: “God's ways are—" ”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Stella hastily. “But the point is what ought we to do? Aunt Harriet's having a sort of hysterical fit. Shall I call Guy?”

“Poor Guy!” said his mother. “One would give one's all to keep tragedy away from the young. Somehow—”

“Well, if it comes to that I'm three years younger than Guy,” Stella pointed out. “Not that I think he'll be much use, but—”

Mrs Matthews laid a hand on hers and pressed it. “Dearest, not that flippant tone, please! Try to remember that the Shadow of Death is over this house. And Guy is far, far more highly-strung than you are, dear.”

“Oh mother, do stop!” implored Stella. “Honestly, I don't want to have hysterics, but I shall in a minute. What ought we to do first?”

Mrs Matthews removed her hand. “My practical little daughter! Where should we poor Marys of this world be, I wonder, without our Marthas? And yet one does somehow yearn for just a little time to be quiet, to face our loss, before we plunge into the sordid side of what ought not to be sordid at all, but very, very beautiful.”

Stella gave a gasp, and went off into a fit of strangled laughter. In the middle of this her brother walked into the room, looking tousled and a little dazed still with sleep. “I s—say!” he stammered. “Uncle's dead! Did you know? Beecher's locked the room, and gone to ring up Fielding. He says there's absolutely no doubt.”

“Hush, dear!” said Mrs Matthews. “Stella, try to control yourself! A doctor should of course be sent for, but one shrinks, somehow, from the thought of Dr Fielding, whom your uncle disliked, coming at such a moment. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, and I suppose there is no help for it, but—”

“I can't see that it matters in the least,” said Guy. He grasped the rail at the foot of his mother's bed, and stood looking down at her with bright, uncomprehending eyes. “I can't grasp it!” he announced. “I mean, uncle's dying like that. Of course, everybody expected it in a way, I suppose. I mean, his blood-pressure. What do you think he died of? Do you suppose it was apoplexy? I always thought he'd have apoplexy sooner or later, didn't you, Stella? Will there have to be an inquest? I don't see why there should be, do you? I mean, everyone knows he had a weak heart. It's obvious he died of it.”

“Yes, dear, but we won't talk of it now,” Mrs Matthews said repressively. “You are upset, and you let your tongue run away with you. You must try and realise what it all means to me. I sometimes think poor Gregory was fonder of me than of his own sisters. I do try always to see only the good in everybody, and Gregory responded to me in a way that makes me very happy to look back upon.”

“Oh Gawd!” said Guy rudely.

Mrs Matthews compressed her lips for a moment, but replied almost at once in an extremely gentle voice: “Go and dress, Guy dear. A dark suit, of course, and not that orange pull-over. You too, Stella.”

“Actually, I hadn't thought of the orange pull-over,” said Guy loftily. “But I utterly agree with Nigel about mourning. It's a survival of barbarism, and, as he says—”

“Darling, I know you don't mean to hurt me,” said Mrs Matthews sadly, “but when you treat sacred things in that spirit of—”

“You've simply got to realise that I'm a Pure Agnostic,” replied Guy. “When you talk about things like death being sacred it means absolutely nothing to me.”

“Oh, shut up!” interrupted Stella, giving him a push towards the door. “Nobody wants to listen to your views on religion.”

“They're not particularly my views,” said Guy, “but the views of practically all thinking people today.”

“Oh yeah?” said Stella inelegantly, and walked off to her own room.

Mary's surmise that Dr Fielding had been called out before breakfast was proved to be correct. He had not returned to his house when Beecher rang up, and it was not until both Stella and Guy had bathed and dressed that he arrived at the Poplars. By that time Miss Matthews, recovering from her fit of crying, had also dressed, and had not only telephoned to her elder sister, Gertrude Lupton, but had found time to give a great many orders to Mrs Beecher for the subsequent using-up of the fish and the eggs already cooked for a breakfast she felt sure no one could think of eating. These orders were immediately cancelled by Stella and Guy, who were feeling hungry, and an altercation was in full force when Dr Fielding walked into the house.

He was a tall man in the middle-thirties, with very wide-set grey eyes, and a humorous mouth. As he stepped into the hall he exchanged a glance with Stella, who at once went forward to greet him. “Oh Deryk, thank God you've come!” she said, taking his hand.

“Stella, not with your uncle lying dead upstairs!” begged Miss Matthews distractedly. “Not that I disapprove, because I'm sure dear Dr Fielding—But after all Gregory said—though I daresay he feels quite differently now that he's passed on: I believe they do, though I've never been able to understand why. Oh dear, how very confusing it all is! If I'd ever dreamed it would all be so difficult and unpleasant I should have been the last person in the world to have wanted Gregory to die. It was the duck, doctor. I implored him not to eat it, but he would go his own way, and now he's dead, and there are two beautiful lamb cutlets gone to waste. Eaten in the kitchen! English lamb!”

Dr Fielding, returning the pressure of Stella's fingers, broke in on this monologue to request that he might be taken at once to Gregory Matthews' room.

“Oh yes!” said Miss Matthews, looking round in a flustered way. “Of course! I should take you up myself, only that I feel I never want to enter the room again. Guy, you are the man of the house now!”

“No one need take me up,” replied Dr Fielding. “I know my way.”

Beecher coughed, and stepped forward to the foot of the stairs. “If you please, sir, I will escort you to the Master's room.”

The doctor looked at him. “You were the one who found Mr Matthews, I think? By all means come up.”

At the head of the stairs he was met by Mrs Matthews. She was dressed in a becoming black frock, and greeted him in a voice rather more fading than usual. She was not a patient of his, because she mistrusted all General Practitioners, but as a man (as she frequently observed) she liked him very well. Now that Gregory Matthews' opposition had been cut short in this summary fashion she was even prepared to accept the doctor as a son-in-law. So there was just a suggestion of sympathetic understanding in the smile she bestowed on him, and she said: “I expect Stella has told you. We can't realise it yet—perhaps mercifully. And yet, when I woke this morning, I had a sort of presentiment. I can hardly describe it, but I think that people who are rather highly-strung, which I'm afraid I am, are more sensitive than others to—what shall I call it?—atmosphere.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the doctor, who knew her of old.

“It was of course a heart-attack, following on acute indigestion,” stated Mrs Matthews. “My poor brother-in-law was sometimes very headstrong, as I expect you know.”

“Yes,” agreed the doctor, edging his way past her. “Very headstrong, I'm afraid.”

She let him go, and proceeded on her way downstairs while Beecher unlocked the door of Gregory Matthews' room, and ushered the doctor in.

He did not say anything when he saw the body lying on the bed, but bent over it with his brows drawn close. Beecher stood watching him while he made his examination, and presently said: “I suppose it was a natural death, sir?”

Dr Fielding looked up quickly. “Have you any reason to think that it was not?”

“Oh no, sir, only that he does look awful, and his eyes being open like that don't look right, somehow.”

“Is that all! If you take my advice you won't spread that kind of rumour about. It might get you into trouble.” Dr Fielding transferred his attention to the bed again, finished his examination, and straightened himself.

Beecher, opening the door for him, volunteered the information, in a rather offended tone, that the body had been cold when he had found it at eight o'clock. The doctor nodded, and passed out of the room to the head of the stairs.

Below, in the hall, the party had been augmented by the arrival of Mrs Lupton and her husband, who had motored over from their house on the other side of the Heath. The presence of Henry Lupton, a little, sandy moustached man with weak, worried blue eyes, was generally felt to be insignificant, but Gertrude Lupton's personality made her a formidable and unwelcome visitor. She was a massively built woman of about fifty-five, extremely upright, and reinforced wherever possible with whalebone. She even wore it inserted into the net fronts which invariably encased her throat. Her hats always had wide brims and very high crowns, and her face-powder was faintly tinted with mauve. She had been the nearest to Gregory Matthews in age of all his family, and the most like him in temperament. Both resembled nothing so much as steam-rollers in their dealings with their fellow creatures, but the difference between them had lain in the fact that whereas Gregory Matthews had been subject to awe-inspiring rages no one had ever seen Gertrude lose one jot of her implacable calm.

She was perfectly calm now, though evidently in the grip of some powerful emotion. She stood resting one hand on the gateleg table in the middle of the hall while she delivered herself of various forceful statements. Dr Fielding, pausing on the top stair, heard her quell Harriet's volubility with a stern admonition to the unfortunate lady to control herself; and annihilate Mrs Matthews, who had unwisely repeated the history of her premonition, by saying: “I have the greatest dislike for that kind of foolish talk, and I must say that I consider it quite uncalled—for in one who was no relation of my poor brother whatsoever. I sincerely trust, Zoë, that you will abandon any attempt to make yourself the central figure in this appalling affair, though I am bound to confess from my knowledge of you that it would be extremely like you to try to focus the limelight on yourself.”

The candour (and indeed thee blunt truth) of this speech came as near to confounding Mrs Matthews as anything could. The doctor, descending the stairs, thought that it said much for her control that she was able to reply, with unimpaired charity: “Ah, my dear Gertrude, I'm afraid that you strong-minded women don't always understand us highly-strung creatures.”

“I understand you perfectly, and I may say that I always have,” replied Mrs Lupton crushingly. She became aware of the doctor's approach, and wheeled round to confront him. “Dr Fielding, I believe. I have heard of you from my brother.”

Her tone implied that she had heard no good of him. He answered somewhat stiffly: “I have been attending Mr Matthews for some time, so I imagine you might.”

She looked him over. “And what,” she demanded, “was, in your opinion, the cause of my unfortunate brother's death?”

“In my opinion,” replied Fielding with a touch of sarcasm, “your brother died from syncope.”

“What on earth's that?” inquired Stella, who had come out of the dining-room as soon as she had heard his voice.

“You will oblige me,” said Mrs Lupton, ignoring her niece, “by being more precise.”

“Certainly,” said Fielding. “Your brother, as no doubt you know, suffered from a high blood-pressure, coupled with a slight valvula affection of the—”

“I am quite aware of the fact that you have been treating my brother for heart-trouble,” interrupted Mrs Lupton, “but I can only say that if he had a weak heart he was the only one of our family thus afflicted. I never believed in it. We come of extremely healthy stock. I am sure that such a thing as a weak heart was never dreamed of in our family.”

“Possibly not,” said Fielding. “But the fact remains that your brother had — as you call it — a weak heart. I repeatedly warned him against over-excitement and injudicious diet, and as he invariably disregarded my advice I have very little doubt that his death was due to syncope, produced, in all probability, by an attack of acute indigestion.”

“The duck!” exclaimed Miss Matthews. “I knew it!”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Matthews comfortingly. “I thought at the time that it was a little unwise of you to have ordered duck, but I make it a rule never to interfere in your province. If only one could have foreseen the result!”

“What did your brother eat for dinner last night?” asked the doctor.

“Roast duck,” answered Miss Matthews, miserably. “It never did agree with him, and there were two beautiful lamb cutlets which he wouldn't touch. I can't bear to think of them.”

“I am afraid,” said Mrs Matthews, recapturing the doctor's attention, “that last night's dinner was not very suitable for anyone with a delicate digestion. There was a lobster cocktail for one thing—”

“Oh, but uncle didn't have that!” objected Stella. “He took about one mouthful, and said it wasn't fit for human consumption.”

“Darling child, please don't interrupt!” said her mother. “And soles with rather a rich sauce, doctor, and a cheese savoury, which I always consider most indigestible.”

“It sounds to me exactly the sort of ill-chosen meal I should expect you to order, Harriet,” said Mrs Lupton severely, “but I have yet to learn that Gregory had anything wrong with his digestion. My own impression is that there is a great deal more in this than meets the eye, and I insist on seeing my brother's corpse immediately.”

Mrs Matthews winced, and closed her eyes. “Please!” she said faintly. “Not that terrible word, Gertrude!”

“I have no patience with that kind of sentimentality,” said Mrs Lupton. “I believe in calling things by their proper names, and if you can tell me that my unfortunate brother is not a corpse I shall be very grateful to you. Henry, I am going up to Gregory's room. You had better come with me.”

Henry Lupton, who had up till now remained discreetly in the background, said: “Yes, my dear, of course!” and with a deprecating look in Dr Fielding's direction, started forward to follow his wife up the stairs.

No one said anything until the Luptons were out of earshot. Dr Fielding was looking at Stella with a rueful smile; Mrs Matthews had sunk into a chair, and was wearing a resigned expression. Harriet, whose lips had been moving in silent communion with herself, suddenly said with strong indignation: “I shall never forgive her, never! I have been ordering meals for Gregory for years! None of the others killed him, so why should this one? Tell me that!”

“Ah, Harriet!” said Mrs Matthews, mournfully shaking her head.

“And don't say Ah, Harriet to me!” snapped Miss Matthews. “If anyone killed him it was you, with all the worry and disturbance about Guy—and about Stella too, now I come to think of it!”

“Oh, Deryk!” murmured Stella, “we're a dreadful family!”

Their fingers met and clasped for a brief moment.

“I wish you wouldn't all talk such rot!” suddenly ejaculated Guy from the dining-room doorway. “It's obvious what uncle died of! Nobody killed him!”

“If anyone mentions the word duck again, I rather think I shall scream,” said Stella.

The sound of a door being shut upstairs warned them of Mrs Lupton's return. She came down the stairs with her lips tightly compressed, and she did not say anything at all until she reached the hall. Then she drew a hissing breath, and said with strong feeling: “Terrible! I am inexpressibly shocked by what I have seen. My poor brother!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Henry Lupton, who was looking unhappier than ever. “Terrible, terrible!”

“That will do, Henry. Talking will not mend matters,” said his wife. She bent her hard stare on the doctor. “Do I understand that you are prepared to sign a death certificate?”

He looked frowningly back at her, a hint of uneasiness in his eyes. “As a medical man—”

“Medical fiddlesticks!” said Mrs Lupton. “I insist upon another's opinion being called in!”

A startled silence fell. It was broken by Mrs Matthews. Her voice jarred a little, though she still spoke in her dulcet way. “Dear Gertrude, you are upset, and no wonder. I am sure you don't mean to hurt anyone's feelings.”

“I am unconcerned with anyone's sensibilities,” said Mrs Lupton. “I repeat, I insist upon a second opinion.”

“Perhaps,” said Dr Fielding, looking her in the eye, “you would like me to notify the Coroner of your brother's death?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lupton. “That is precisely what I should like, Dr Fielding!”

Chapter Two

No one spoke for a minute. The implication of Mrs Lupton's words could not be misunderstood, but it took time for her meaning to be fully realised. Everyone stared at her a little blankly, except the doctor, who stood looking down, still frowning, at the table's polished surface.

Harriet was the first to break into agitated speech. “You may just as well say at once that you think I poisoned him, and I'm astonished that you don't! And as for housekeeping, you may think you are much better at it than I am, but all I can say is I should be ashamed of the waste that goes on in your house! And if you think I gave Gregory duck on purpose to kill him there are the cutlets to prove I didn't!”

“No, there aren't,” said Stella unsteadily. “Eaten in the kitchen.”

Mrs Matthews took a cigarette-case out of her handbag, and with trembling fingers selected a cigarette, and lit it. “Stella! Please!”

Guy came forward a few paces. “Do you mean you want a p—post-mortem?” he demanded. “It's absolute rot! And I must say I should like to know what right you have to waltz in and interfere! Now uncle's dead I'm the head of this house, and—”

“No, my dear Guy, you are not,” said his aunt, quite unruffled. “I have little doubt that you would like to think yourself the head of the family, and I am well aware of the machinations of you and your mother to induce your uncle to name you his heir. What I am not aware of is that he ever did so. That being so it is my duty to remind you that the head of this family is now your cousin Randall.”

Guy flushed angrily. “Anyway, you're not the head, and you've no right—”

“If Randall is going to be dragged into this I shall remove myself at once,” said Stella disgustedly. “I can put up with a good deal, but not with Randall. What's more, if anyone poisoned uncle I should think it was he.”

“That,” said Mrs Lupton, “is a foolish remark which you will, I trust, regret having made once you have given yourself time to consider. I hold no brief for Randall. Far from it. But to accuse him of poisoning your uncle is absurd. Randall has not been down to Grinley Heath since last Sunday.”

“Are we not all of us a trifle overwrought?” interposed Mrs Matthews smoothly. “Surely no one seriously thinks that poor Gregory died from anything but the results of acute indigestion? If there were the slightest reason for suspecting foul play I should be the first to demand a thorough investigation. But I am sure no one can have wanted his death, and really, Gertrude, when one considers the unpleasantness of—of inquests, and things—”

“I hope I am not one to shrink from unpleasantness,” said Mrs Lupton. “And when you say that you are sure no one can have wanted Gregory's death I must beg to differ from you. Please understand that I make no accusations! But I am not ignorant of the dissensions in this household, and I cannot but see, painful though the thought may be, that his death benefits several people.”

Her husband entered unexpectedly into the discussion. He gave a little cough, and said nervously: “Really, my dear, I think we should be guided by what the doctor says. You don't want to start any sort of scandal, do you? You would very much dislike to be dragged into—er—that kind of publicity, you know.”

“Kindly permit me to know my own mind, Henry,” said Mrs Lupton freezingly. “You and I at least can have no reason to fear an investigation.”

Henry looked rather frightened, and said: “No, my dear, of course not, but hadn't we better think it over before we act?”

“Deryk, you don't think he was poisoned, do you?” asked Stella anxiously.

Fielding gave her a brief smile. “No, I don't. At the same time, if Mrs Lupton feels there is room for doubt I should naturally prefer that there should be a post-mortem examination.” He glanced at Mrs Lupton as he spoke, and added: “As far as I am concerned there is no objection to the matter being put into the hands of the Coroner.”

“Well, I think there's every objection!” said Guy angrily. “Everyone but Aunt Gertrude is perfectly satisfied with your diagnosis, and I utterly fail to see what point there is in having uncle cut up, and a lot of family linen washed in public! Of course he wasn't poisoned, but the instant we have an autopsy and an inquest people will start talking, and say there's no smoke without a fire, and life will be pure hell!”

“I must say, that is perfectly true,” agreed his mother. “And one cannot help wondering whether it is quite what poor Gregory would have liked.”

“It isn't,” said Miss Matthews positively. “He said he wasn't going to have anything more to do with doctors. And it isn't what I like either, though no one considers my feelings in this house, or ever has! I know what it will be. We shall all have to answer questions which have nothing to do with the case, and after all no one could possibly live with Gregory without quarrelling with him. And for my part I shall tell them quite frankly that it was Gertrude who always quarrelled most with him in the nursery, which is perfectly true, as poor Hubert and Arthur would bear me out if only they were alive to hear me!” This chance reference to her two deceased brothers caused her to burst into tears again. She brought out a large handkerchief from her pocket, and sniffed into it, saying: “If only I had a Man to turn to! But my brothers are all dead, and even Mr Rumbold's away, and you can put upon me as much as you choose!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Harriet!” commanded her sister. “No one suspects you of having anything to do with it.”

“That's what you say!” retorted Miss Matthews. “But I haven't the least doubt they'll bring it home to the duck, and not believe a word about the cutlets! And if they don't say it's the duck you may depend upon it they'll fix upon poor Guy, because his uncle was going to send him to South America, which was just like Gregory, and if Guy had killed him there would have been some excuse.

And so I shall tell them! Guy's the only one of you who has any affection for his poor old aunt, and it's my belief you're behaving like this out of pure spite, Gertrude!”

After delivering herself of this diatribe Miss Matthews was entirely overcome, and sobbed so gustily, and thrust her sister and sister-in-law away so violently that it fell to Guy and Stella to escort her up to her own room. Guy performed his share of this task without conveying any marked impression of fondness for his aunt, while Stella openly grimaced at Dr Fielding. She was obliged to remain with Miss Matthews until that afflicted lady had recovered some measure of composure, and by the time she was at liberty to go downstairs again Dr Fielding had left the house, and Mrs Matthews was bidding farewell to the Luptons in the porch.

Stella found her brother in the library, telephoning to Mr Nigel Brooke, with whom, a year ago, he had gone into a precarious partnership.

Mr Brooke's vocation was Interior Decoration, and since Guy coupled a leaning towards Art with a profound veneration for Mr Brooke, four years his senior, he had had no difficulty in discovering the same vocation in himself. Both were alike inn being the only sons of widowed mothers, but whereas Nigel had entire control over his inherited capital the little money which Arthur Matthews had been able to leave his son was left him in trust, the trustees being his wife, and his eldest brother, Gregory. Guy had owed his partnership to his mother's skilful handling of his uncle, Gregory Matthews, who liked a Pretty Woman, and who knew next to nothing of his nephew's abilities, and had allowed himself to be cajoled into putting up a thousand pounds for Guy's share in the virgin business. Since that day he had ample opportunity of appraising his nephew's capabilities, and the result of this study was that upon being asked for a further advance to support the struggling fortunes of the firm of Brooke and Matthews he had countered with an offer from a business acquaintance who had a vacancy for a young man in the office of his rubber plantations in Brazil. The coaxings and even the tears of a Pretty Woman had this time failed to melt Gregory. He apostrophised his nephew as a young waster, and stated, with unnecessary violence, his profound desire to be rid of him. For perhaps the first time in her life Zoë Matthews had found it impossible to get her own way. Her only means of gratifying her son's ambition, and of keeping him at her side, was to sell out some of her own capital for his use, and since her income was already quite insufficient for her needs this expedient was naturally out of the question. She did not even consider it. Nor did she permit her resentment to become apparent to Gregory Matthews, for that would have been very stupid, and might have led to the loss of an extremely comfortable home for which she was not expected to pay as much as one farthing. The home had its disadvantages, of course. It was not her own, and the presence of her sister-in-law was always an irritation, but since poor Harriet was the antithesis of everything Gregory Matthews thought a female should be it needed really very little trouble to enlist his support in any disagreement she happened to have with her sister-in law. Patience and unfailing sweetness had achieved their object: at the end of a five-year sojourn at the Poplars Zoë Matthews had contrived to make herself, if not the mistress of the house, at least the cherished guest whose comfort must be everyone's first consideration. “Such a ruthless woman - my dear Aunt Zoë,” Randall Matthews had once murmured, glancing maliciously up under his long lashes.

Randall was in Stella's thoughts as she waited for her brother to conclude his conversation with Nigel Brooke. When he put the receiver down at last she said abruptly: “Do you suppose uncle left everything to Randall, Guy?”

“You bet he did—most of it, anyway,” replied Guy. “Randall's been working for it for months, if you ask me—always turning up here for no known reason except to oil up to uncle by suddenly being attentive to him. It's so damned unfair! I come down from Oxford, and get a job absolutely bang-off, and stick to it, and all Randall does is to drift around looking willowy and run through a packet of money (because Uncle Hubert left a fair spot, so Aunt Harriet told me) and never do a stroke of work, or attempt to! It makes me sick! Besides, he's so utterly poisonous.”

Stella lit a cigarette. “I suppose he'll turn up next. And say foul things to everybody in a loving voice. Do you think uncle's left mother any money?”

“Yes, I'm pretty sure he has,” said Guy confidently. “Anyway, the main point is she's my sole trustree now, which means I shall be able to carry on with Nigel.” His brow clouded. “Everything would be all right if it weren't for that blasted old harridan Aunt Gertrude! What the hell she wanted to stick her nose into it for I can't imagine.”

Jealous of us,” said Stella negligently. “She probably thinks mother's getting more out of uncle's death than she is. Of course it's fairly noxious, but I suppose it doesn't really matter—the post-mortem, I mean.”

“Oh, doesn't it matter?” said Guy with considerable bitterness. Well, for once in her life Aunt Harriet hit the nail on the head! We shall have the police barging in and asking damned awkward questions, and if that's your idea of a good time it isn't mine! Everyone knows I had a flaming row with uncle over his precious South American scheme, and when the police hear about that I shall be in a nice position.”

Stella, not much impressed, flicked the ash off her cigarette on to the carpet “But when they don't find poison in uncle they won't ask us any questions at all.”

“Yes, but what if they do find poison?” Guy demanded.

“They won't.” She looked up quickly. “Good lord, you don't—you don't really think he was done-in, do you?”

“No, of course not,” answered Guy. “Still, we've got to face the fact that he may have been. Mind you, I don't believe he was, but that ass Fielding didn't seem any too sure.”

“Do you frightfully mind not calling Deryk "that ass"?” asked Stella frigidly. “I happen to be going to marry him.”

“Well, you'll have a jolly job explaining that to the police,” retorted Guy. “And you'll also be able to tell them what uncle said about it, not forgetting the bit about the Inebriates' Home.”

“Shut up!” Stella said fiercely. “It isn't Deryk's fault that his father drank!”

“No, but it's definitely his misfortune,” mocked Guy. “Particularly if it comes out that uncle, in his well-known playful way, threatened to blow the gaff if Fielding didn't lay-off you.”

Stella's hand as she raised her cigarette to her lips was shaking, but she controlled her temper, and merely said: “I suppose you have to be vulgar as well as spiteful?”

“I may be vulgar, but I'm not in the least spiteful,” replied Guy. “I'm merely pointing out to you how and where you stand. I don't blame Fielding for having a Hopeless Inebriate for a father, but if you think Grinley Heath would be nice about it you've got another guess coming. A fat lot of practice he'd have had here by now if uncle had split! 'Tisn't as though he were even T.T. himself. Far from it, in fact.”

“You're a filthy, backbiting little cad!” Stella exploded, her cheeks flaming. “If you're hinting that Deryk poisoned uncle, let me tell you that I'd a lot sooner believe you did!”

“Oh, you would, would you?” said Guy, suddenly furious. “Thanks very much! Well, I didn't poison him, and I'll trouble you to refrain from suggesting that I did! Because if there's going to be any chat of that sort from you, there'll be quite a spot from me about your precious Deryk! Quite got that?”

“If you think that I'd—” Stella broke off, staring across the room at him. She gave an uncertain laugh. “What on earth did you start this futile argument for? You talk as though we knew uncle had been poisoned, and you know perfectly well it's all rot!”

“Yes, of course,” Guy said, his anger evaporating. “Utter rot. Sorry; I didn't mean to be offensive. Only if there does happen to be trouble we've damned well got to stick together.”

“What's going to be done?” asked Stella, after a slight pause. “Did Aunt Gertrude ring up the police?”

“No; Fielding's going to get on to the Coroner. They'll come and take uncle's body away, and I suppose we shan't know anything much for a day or two. I asked Fielding, and he said it would be a question of sending the organs up to the Home Office, or somewhere. I've rung up uncle's lawyer, by the way, so no doubt he'll come down with the Will. Personally I can't see any reason why I shouldn't go up to town as usual.”

His mother, entering the room at that moment, overheard this last remark and read him a fond but reproving lecture on the respect due to the dead. When she perceived that this made very little impression on him she begged him to consider her feelings. Stella, realising that her mother was going to expatiate sadly on the loneliness of widowhood, slipped out of the room, and went upstairs, only to run into her aunt, who had temporarily forgotten her woes in the discovery that owing to the window in Gregory Matthews' bathroom having been left open the new bottle of his medicine had been blown over into the washbasin, and smashed.

“I can't see that it matters,” said Stella crossly. “You couldn't use up somebody else's tonic.”

“No, but the chemist always allows us something on the bottles,” said Miss Matthews severely.

Stella looked with faint repulsion at the assortment of objects in her aunt's clutch, and wondered how one could be expected to feel solemn about death when one's relatives behaved like Aunt Harriet. Miss Matthews had triumphantly collected from her brother's bathroom his sponges and face-flannel (which would all come in useful for cleaning-rags), a cake of soap, two toothbrushes (excellent for scrubbing silver filigree dishes), a half-used tube of toothpaste (which she proposed to use up herself as soon as her own was finished), a bottle of mouth-wash, and a loofah.

“I thought Guy might like the loofah,” said Miss Matthews. “It's a very good one. There's the end of a stick of shaving-soap too.”

“If you take my advice you won't offer it to him,” said Stella. “He's a bit squeamish.”

“If there's one thing I hate above all others,” declared Miss Matthews, “it is waste!”

Her activities during the rest of the morning were surprising. Having ordered cold lamb and rice-pudding for lunch, spurning all Mrs Beecher's more appetising suggestions on the score that no one would care what there was to eat on such an occasion as this, she announced her intention of having Gregory Matthews' room turned out. No sooner had his body been removed in an ambulance than she ordered both Rose and Mary upstairs to begin this work of purification. Rose at once started to cry, saying that she couldn't bear to enter the Master's room, but Miss Matthews, her own late qualms forgotten, told her not to be silly, but to gather up all the Master's discarded underclothing, and carry them to the dirty-linen basket. Rose immediately gave notice, and retired sobbing. Mrs Matthews came up to suggest that they should all of them devote the rest of this unhappy day to quiet and meditation, but was tartly informed that if a thing had to be done her sister-in-law did not believe in putting it off. She went away, routed, and since Guy was occupied in designing an overmantel for a house in Dorking, and flatly refused to meditate with his mother, and Stella could not be found, abandoned all ideas of a contemplative day, and ordered the chauffeur to motor her to town for the purpose of buying mourning clothes.

When Miss Matthews, busily engaged in inspecting the condition of Gregory's suits (with a view to selling them), heard of her sister-in-law's action she could scarcely contain herself. To go to London for no nobler purpose than to squander money on dress seemed to her the height of callousness. “After all her talk about setting our minds on higher things! Meditation indeed! And I should very much like to know what right she has to take the car out without one word to me!” This aspect of the case soon outweighed every other. Miss Matthews went muttering about the house, and by lunch-time had muttered herself into a state of considerable agitation which found expression in a sudden announcement to her nephew and niece that she could not enjoy a moment's peace until she had seen Gregory's Will, and had the Whole Thing settled Once and for All.

One glance at the rice pudding which succeeded the lamb at luncheon drove Stella from the table. She said in a wan voice that she really didn't feel she could, and betook herself to the house next door.

Dr Fielding had come in from his rounds when Stella arrived, and had just gone in to luncheon. He was glancing through his notebook when Stella was ushered into the room, but at sight of her he threw the book aside, and jumped up. “Stella, my dear!”

“I've come to lunch,” said Stella. “There's nothing but mutton and rice chez noun, and I can't bear it.”

He smiled. “Poor darling! Jenner, lay for Miss Matthews. Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it. Have you had a difficult morning?”

“Ghastly,” said Stella, accepting a glass of sherry. “Enough to make one wish uncle hadn't died.”

Fielding gave her a warning look, and said: “I was afraid you'd have rather a bad time. All right, Jenner, we'll wait on ourselves.” He paused while the manservant withdrew, and then said: “Stella, be careful what you say in front of people. You don't want anyone to get the impression that you wished your uncle to die.”

“I didn't wish him to,” replied Stella. “I hadn't ever considered the possibility. He wasn't the sort of person you'd expect to die, was he?”

“Well, I'm a doctor,” said Fielding, smiling.

“You mean you did expect it? You never told me.”

“No, I didn't exactly expect it. Nor should I have told you if I had, my darling.”

Stella laid down her knife and fork. “Deryk, please tell me one thing: Do you believe uncle was poisoned?”

“No, I don't,” he answered. “But although there were no signs not compatible with death from syncope, I couldn't undertake to state definitely that he was not poisoned upon a purely superficial examination.”

She looked a little troubled, and presently said: “I do wish there hadn't got to be a post-mortem. Whatever you may say, I believe you're secretly a bit afraid that they may find something.”

“I'm not in the least afraid of it,” said Fielding calmly. “I hope they won't, for all your sakes, but if there's any doubt I want it cleared up.”

Stella was unappeased. “Well, it's pretty beastly for the rest of us. I must say I hoped you weren't going to give in to Aunt Gertrude. Couldn't you have stopped it all?”

He raised his eyebrows rather quizzically. “My dearest child! What about my professional reputation?”

“I don't know, but you said yourself you were prepared to sign a death certificate. I can't understand your wanting a post-mortem. Supposing they do find poison? Everyone knows uncle had a row with you about me, and it seems to me the police are quite likely to start suspecting you of having given him poison.”

“They can suspect what they like,” said Fielding coolly. “But they'll be darned clever if they manage to prove that I ever administered poison to your uncle. Don't you worry your head about me, Stella: I haven't the slightest reason to fear a post-mortem.”

“Of course I didn't mean that I thought you really might have poisoned uncle,” said Stella. “But it does seem to me that things are going to be fairly beastly one way and another. The only nice part of it is that we shall be able to get married now without an awful fight. I don't think mother really minds about it. She's much more wrapped up in Guy than she is in me.”

He stretched out his hand to her across the table. “Well, that's a very nice part, anyway.”

She nodded. “Yes, because I hate rows. I should have married you whatever uncle said, but it makes it easier now that he's dead.”

Fielding got up, and came round behind her chair. “I'm going to ring for Jenner to bring in the next course,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders. “But first I must kiss you.”

She raised her face, and as he bent over her put her hand to caress his lean cheek. “How many girls have you kissed, like that?” she asked, when she was able.

“Crowds,” he said, laughing.

She smiled, but said seriously: “I expect that's true. You were keen on Betty Mason before you thought of me, weren't you?”

“Never!”

“Oh, I'm not throwing a jealous fit,” Stella assured him. “You needn't mind admitting it. I think you're rather the type that can't help making love to girls who aren't actually cross-eyed or hare-Tipped. I shall probably have an awful time with you when we're married.”

“It sounds as though it's I who will have the awful time,” he replied teasingly.

“Well, I must say I shouldn't like it if you got off with anyone else now that you're engaged to me,” admitted Stella.

“I'll watch my step,” he promised, walking over to the bell and setting his finger on it.

Jenner's entrance put an end to the conversation. He brought word of two patients awaiting the doctor in the surgery.

“Who are they?” asked Fielding.

“Young Jones, sir, and Mrs Thomas about her little girl's leg.”

“Oh, well, tell them I don't see patients until two o'clock. Put the clocks back, or something.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Don't think you've got to stay here because of me,” said Stella. “I'm just going anyway.”

“It's nobody who matters,” he said lightly.

Stella looked at him with a hint of austerity in her candid eyes. “You don't only care about the people who matter, do you, Deryk?”

“Of course not, but there's nothing urgent about these cases. Have some more cream?”

“No, thanks. If it's Mrs Thomas from North End Cottages I do wish you'd go. She told Aunt Harriet that Minnie dreads having her leg dressed, and I must say I'm not surprised. I hate kids to be scared, don't you? I used to be at the dentist's, and he always kept me waiting, which made it worse.”

He got up, pushing his chair back, and said ruefully: “You're determined to keep my nose to the grindstone, young woman. Shall I ever be allowed to have a meal in peace when we're married?”

“Yes, lots,” said Stella, kissing her hand to him.

She finished her luncheon alone, and strolled back to the Poplars. She noticed as she walked up the drive that the blinds were all down in the front windows, and found, upon entering the house, that this had been brought about by the relentless hand of her aunt Gertrude, who had returned to the Poplars, accompanied this time by her younger daughter, Janet.

In consequence of the gloom reigning over the library and the dining-room the family had been forced to sit in the drawing-room, a large and cheerless apartment at the back of the house, elegantly but uncomfortably furnished in the style of Louis XV. Mrs Lupton was discussing with her sister what had best be done with Gregory Matthews' clothing, and Janet, a pale, earnest looking young woman of five-and-twenty, was trying to be bright and intelligent over her cousin Guy's sketch of the overmantel for the house in Dorking. Stella paused on the threshold, meditating instant flight, but Guy cast her a supplicating look, and feeling that at least she had enjoyed a very good luncheon while he regaled himself on cold lamb and rice pudding she took pity on him, and advanced into the room. “Hullo, Janet!” she said.

Mrs Lupton looked up, folding her lips. She was a just woman and she did not blame Stella for being much better-looking than either of her own daughters. She was merely sorry that Stella should ruin her complexion with make-up, and squander her mother's (or more probably Gregory's) money on ridiculously unsuitable clothes. “Well, Stella?” she said. “And where have you been, may one ask?”

“Out,” said Stella briefly.

Mrs Lupton was glad to think that her daughters would never dream of answering her in that rude way. “I should have thought you could have stayed at home for one day,” she remarked. “And have you nothing quieter to wear than that frock?”

“No, nothing.”

“You must have a black one.”

“All right,” said Stella equably. “If she happens to think of it, I daresay mother will buy one for me.”

Mrs Lupton sat very straight in her chair. “The least said about your mother's expedition to town the better,” she announced.

Guy looked up, a spark of anger in his eyes. “Quite!” he said with a good deal of emphasis.

Janet, who hated people to quarrel, hurried into speech. “Aunt Zoë has such wonderful taste!” she said. “I'm afraid I never know what to buy, but of course I don't care for clothes, much. Or jewellery either. Isn't it funny? Because Agnes—”

“Not funny: tragic,” said Stella, with a smile that took the sting out of her words. “You look heathenish in that hat too.”

“Oh, Stella, you are awful! Do I really?”

“Yes,” said Guy viciously.

“I know you're only teasing me, but I don't care. I think nearly everything is so much more important than mere clothes, don't you?”

“No,” said Stella. “You can see I don't.”

Janet persevered. “Oh, I know you only say that! Guy has been showing me a design for an overmantel. I think it's marvellous. I should never have thought of green marble. I'm not really a bit artistic. You'd shriek if you saw my attempts at drawing! It's funny, really, because Agues used to sketch beautifully, and of course she has awfully good taste. By the way, mother rang her up as soon as she heard, and she sent her love, and said to tell you all how sorry she is. She'd have come down, only that Baby's cutting a tooth, and she doesn't like to leave him.”

“I shall give that baby an expensive christening present,” said Guy in a burst of gratitude.

Janet giggled. “You are mad! You know he was christened ages ago, the dear mite! Why, he's actually six months old now! It doesn't seem possible, does it?”

As neither Stella nor Guy could think of anything to say in answer to this a silence fell. Janet broke it, saying in a lowered voice: “It's funny, isn't it, the way one simply can't help talking of ordinary, everyday things even when something awful has happened? I suppose it is that one just doesn't realise it at first.”

“No, I think it is that uncle didn't really matter to any of us,” replied Stella thoughtfully.

“Oh, Stella, how can you?” cried Janet, shocked.

“But it's perfectly true,” Stella said, resting her chin in her cupped hands, and wrinkling her brow a little. “When he was here he made himself felt because for one thing he was a domestic tyrant, and for another he had a pretty strong personality. But he didn't matter to us because we didn't like him.”

“I'm sure I was always very fond of him,” said Janet primly.

Another silence fell. Miss Matthews' voice made itself heard from the other end of the room. “All those lovely ivory brushes and things too! With G. M. on the backs, so they won't be any use to Randall, and it's obviously meant that Guy should have them. And I do think we ought to give something of Gregory's to Mr Rumbold.”

“I fail to see what claim Mr Rumbold has on any of Gregory's possessions,” said Mrs Lupton.

“Not a claim exactly, but he is such a close friend, and we had him to stay when Mrs Rumbold went to visit her sister. Really quite like one of the family, for I'm sure he treated this house like a second home, playing chess with Gregory, you know. Though I shall always feel it's a pity he ever married That Woman.”

“Harriet,” said Mrs Lupton, not mincing matters, you're a sentimental fool, and always have been.”

“I may be a fool,” said Miss Matthews with a rising colour, “but I wish very much that Mr Rumbold weren't away, because at least he's a Man, in spite of being married to That Woman, and he could advise me.”

“I have very little opinion of men,” stated Mrs Lupton, “and I fail to see that you stand in any need of advice. Nothing can be done until the Will has been read. I have no doubt that will make very unpleasant hearing, but at least it cannot come as a shock to those of us who have seen what has been going on under our noses for the past five years.”

Stella did not feel that she could let this pass. “Yes,” she said across the room. “Mother said today that she believed uncle was fonder of her than of either of his sisters.”

Mrs Lupton bent a cold stare upon her. “I can well imagine that your mother may have said so, but if she supposes that your uncle had any real affection for anyone but himself she is a bigger fool than I take her for.” She turned back to her sister. “Has anyone remembered to inform Randall of his uncle's death?” she demanded.

“I'm sure it's no use asking me,” replied Miss Matthews. “I have had far too much to think of.”

“If there's one thing more certain than anything else it is that we don't want Randall coming here to make things ten times more unbearable than they are already,” said Guy.

“My opinion of Randall must be as well known to you as it is to him,” said Mrs Lupton, “but personal feelings are beside the point. So far as we know Randall is his uncle's heir. He is certainly the head of the family, and he should be summoned.”

“I must say,” remarked Janet with an air of originality, “that I don't like Randall. I know it's wrong of me, but I just can't help it. He's the sort of person I could never trust. I don't know why, I'm sure.”

“Oh, because he's like an amiable snake,” said Stella light-heartedly. “Smooth, and fanged.”

The door opened. “Mr Randall Matthews!” announced Beecher.

Chapter Three

“Hell!” said Guy audibly.

There entered a sleek and beautiful young man who paused just inside the door, and glanced round at his assembled relatives with a bland and faintly mocking smile. He was dressed with the most finicking care, and nothing could have been more symphonic than the blend of his shirt with his silk socks and his expensive tie. His figure was extremely elegant; his hands were well-manicured; his jet-black hair was brushed into waves undisturbed by the slightest disorder; and his teeth were so gleamingly white and regular that they might have served for an advertisement for somebody's toothpaste. His mouth was a little too thin-lipped to be perfect, and curled too sarcastically to be pleasant, but his eyes, set under straight brows and fringed by long lashes, were remarkable for their colour and brilliance. They were of a startling and deep blue, very hard, generally half-hidden by drooping lids, and occasionally disconcerting in their sudden alertness. As he looked from one to the other of his relations they were smiling, and quite limpid.

“How lovely for me!” he said in a voice of honeyed sweetness. “Not only my dear Aunt Gertrude, but my charming cousin Janet as well!” He walked forward, graceful and rather feline, and bent to kiss his aunt's cheek. “My dear aunt! You look so nice in that hat.”

“Do you think so?” said Mrs Lupton unresponsively.

“I've thought so for years,” he said gently, and passed on to Miss Matthews. “You must none of you bother to say how pleased you are to see me,” he said. “I can read it in all your expressive faces.” He looked critically at Stella, and strolled across the room towards her. “Yes, darling, that is quite a nice frock, but the handkerchief is not only the wrong shade of grey, but quite damnably tied. Let me show you, my sweet.”

Stella pushed his hand away. “No, thanks!”

He was still smiling. “How you hate me, don't you?” he murmured. “And Guy? How are you, little cousin?”

Guy, who did not relish this form of address, glowered at him.

Mrs Lupton, still rigid with wrath at the edged compliment paid her, said sharply: “I presume you have heard the news of your uncle's death?”

“Oh yes!” said Randall. “You will notice that I am wearing an armband. I always like to observe the conventions. And which of you,” he inquired, looking amiably round, “is responsible for dear uncle's death? Or don't you know?”

This airy question produced a feeling of tension, which was possibly Randall's object. Mrs Lupton said: “That is not amusing nor is this a time for jokes in bad taste.”

Randall opened his eyes at her. “Dear aunt, did you think I was joking?”

“If uncle was poisoned, which I don't believe he was for an instant,” said Stella, “you had a bigger motive for killing him than anyone else!”

Randall took a cigarette out of his thin gold case, and lit it in a leisurely way. “True, my pet, very true, but you mustn't forget that I was several miles distant when he died. And while I am on the subject may I ask who was responsible for starting this canard that uncle was poisoned?”

“I was responsible for the post-mortem,” replied Mrs Lupton.

“Do you know, I thought perhaps you might be?” said Randall.

“I am by no means satisfied that your uncle died a natural death. I accuse no one; I make no insinuations; but I shall be surprised if my suspicions are not found to be correct.”

“I know you like plain-speaking, my beloved aunt,” said Randall, “so you will not mind my telling you that I find your behaviour extremely officious.”

“Indeed?”

“And ill judged,” said Randall pensively.

“I am not concern—”

“Also more than a little stupid. But that was to be expected.”

“It may interest you to know—”

“Experience, my dear aunt, leads me to reply with confidence that whatever it is you have to say is not in the least likely to interest me.”

While Mrs Lupton fought for words Stella said curiously: “Then you don't think uncle can really have been poisoned, Randall?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” replied Randall. “The question interests me almost as little as Aunt Gertrude's remarks.”

“Of course, I see what you mean,” said Janet. “But if he was poisoned I'm sure we all want it cleared up.”

“Are you, darling?” said Randall solicitously.

“Well—well, you wouldn't want a thing like that to go unpunished, would you?” said Janet.

“If there's any doubt naturally we want it cleared up!” said Guy, looking defiantly at Mrs Lupton.

“That was not the tone you used this morning,” she commented dryly.

“You must not pay too much attention to Guy, Aunt Gertrude,” said Randall. “He is only trying to impress you.”

“Damn you, are you hinting that I've any reason for wanting it hushed up?” demanded Guy angrily.

“Shut up! he's only trying to get a rise out of you,” said Stella. She met Randall's ironic gaze, and said bluntly:

“Why are you so against a post-mortem?”