To the outside observer the effect caused by Randall's entrance could not be anything but comic. Mr Edward Rumbold, after one swift glance round the assembled company, became afflicted suddenly by a cough which made it necessary to shade his mouth with his hand for several moments. Mrs Matthews' sweet smile vanished abruptly; Miss Matthews broke off short in the middle of what she was saying and glared at Randall; and Guy said: “Oh, God!” as though his endurance was at an end.
Randall looked round with a glint in his eyes, and said affably: “How nice it is to see you all looking so happy and comfortable!”
“What the devil do you want?” said Guy disagreeably.
“Guy dearest!” said his mother, mildly reproving.
“Ah, how do you do?” said Randall, shaking hands with Edward Rumbold. “I'm quite delighted to see you. I was afraid I should find unadulterated family. Do not trouble to ring the bell, dear Aunt Harriet: Beecher knows I am here.”
“I wasn't going to!” said Miss Matthews, quivering with annoyance. “I'm sure I don't know why you've elected to come here. I noticed that you didn't trouble yourself to come to the Inquest.”
“No, I thought it would be much kinder to let you tell me all about it,” said Randall, drawing up a chair, and carefully hitching up his trousers before sitting down in it.
“I don't want to discuss it in any way, least of all with you!” snapped Miss Matthews.
“Really?” said Randall incredulously. “And to think I nearly refrained from visiting you today for fear I should find you all talking about the Inquest in that peculiarly reiterative way you have!”
“If you had one spark of decent feeling, Randall, you would have been present at the Inquest!” said Miss Matthews, moving the cups about with a good deal of clatter. “Not that I expected it. I've given up expecting you to behave in anything but a thoroughly selfish manner. Just like your uncle! Though you're not the only person I could mention who thinks of no one but themselves. I name no names, but those whom the cap fits can wear it,” she added darkly.
Mrs Matthews intervened at this point, and said in a grave voice: “Isn't this a little undignified? When one thinks that only a week ago Death visited this house, doesn't it seem to you that we should all of us try to turn our minds away from petty squabbles to something higher and better?”
Guy made an impatient movement, and strode away to the window, and stood with his back to the room, fidgeting with the blind-cord.
“Certainly, my dear aunt!” said Randall, who had listened to her with an air of courteous interest. “Let us by all means try! But you must suggest the subject. No one else is nearly so fit.”
“I think each one of us could think of something if we tried,” said Mrs Matthews gently. “Even you, Randall.”
“I can tell you a story about a golfer who went to Heaven,” said Randall, “but I'm afraid that exhausts my repertoire of higher and better things.”
“If you are trying to shock me, Randall, I can only ;fissure you that I am not shocked, but only very sad to think that you can joke about things which to me are sacred.”
“Aunt Zoë,” said Randall, “you never disappoint me.”
Edward Rumbold felt that it was time to intervene. He said: “The younger generation are most of them distressingly irreverent, Mrs Matthews. I met a "sweet young thing" the other day who propounded the most startling views on the Christian religion!” He drifted easily into anecdote, and succeeded in diverting not only Mrs Matthews, but Harriet Matthews as well.
Guy came away from the window as Mr Rumbold's story ended, and began to hand round the tea-cups. Stella entered the room almost immediately, nodded to Randall, and sat down on a floor-cushion by her mother.
Randall regarded her with a pained expression. “My little love, do you not see that I am present? Have you no exclamation of mingled dismay and loathing to greet me with?”
“I saw your car in the drive, so I knew what to expect,” retorted Stella. “I suppose you've come to hear about the Inquest. The police asked for an adjournment, so we're just where we were before.”
“If they're wise they'll give it up,” said Guy. “No one'll ever know the truth. Don't you think they'll chuck it fairly soon, Mr Rumbold?”
“I don't know, Guy. It depends how much they've got to go on.”
“They haven't got anything. Aunt Harriet saw to that, said Guy, with a little laugh.
“I'm sure if I'd ever dreamed there was going to be such a fuss made over my clearing up poor Gregory's things I wouldn't have touched one of them!” said Miss Matthews agitatedly. “Anyone would think I did it on purpose! No one told me I ought not to, and my motto is, If a job has to be done sometime, do it at once! Besides, there wasn't anything that could possibly have had poison in it, as I told the Superintendent. "If you think there's poison in a bottle of iodine and a packet of corn-plaster," I said, "you can take them and see for yourself". “
“And did he take them?” inquired Mr Rumbold.
Miss Matthews sniffed. “Yes. Such nonsense! I could understand him wanting to take the salts and the liverpills, but I've yet to hear of anyone's drinking iodine. Anyway, I gave him everything I took out of poor Gregory's medicine-chest, and I only hope he's satisfied.”
“But my dear Miss Matthews, what did you do with your brother's personal effects?” asked Rumbold.
“I didn't do anything with them!” she replied hotly. “I left all his clothes, and his ivory brushes, and his watch and chain, and things tidily put away in his wardrobe! The only things I threw away were things like his sponges, which were no good to anybody. And if the police want to see them I'm extremely sorry, but they went into the boiler with all the rest of the rubbish!”
“I see,” said Rumbold. “A sort of clean sweep.”
“Well, what was the use of keeping a lot of things no one could ever use?” demanded Miss Matthews. “Next I suppose I shall be blamed for having the room swept!” .
“My dear, I don't think anyone blames you,” said Mrs Matthews. “You couldn't know. After all, we none of us dreamed there was any truth in Gertrude's suspicions. And if perhaps you quite unwittingly burned something which contained the poison, do you know I am almost glad? Nothing can bring Gregory back to us, and isn't it better that we should remain in ignorance?”
“We seem to be likely to,” muttered Guy.
Stella was frowning. “No!” she said. “If he was poisoned we've got to know who did it. Good God, how could we go on when we know that one of us is a murderer?”
“How dare you, Stella!” gasped her aunt.
“But it's true!” persisted Stella. “That's what's so ghastly. You don't seem to see it, but can't you realise that if the police don't discover who did it we shall wonder which of us it was all our lives?”
“Morbid rot!” said Guy. “I'd a lot sooner wonder than have a foul scandal, anyway.”
“Would you?” said Stella, looking up at him with a vague horror in her eyes. “When it might have been me, or even Mummy?”
“Oh, don't talk such drivel!” said Guy roughly.
Mrs Matthews gave a little laugh, and dropped her hand on to Stella's shoulder. “My darling, you mustn't let your imagination run away with you quite so fast!”
“But the fact remains that she has spoken nothing but the truth,” said Randall. “I congratulate you, Stella.”
Mrs Matthews met his look with one very nearly as limpid. “I'm afraid I can't agree with you, my dear Randall. Stella was speaking in that exaggerated way which I've so often deplored. I hope that she wouldn't suspect her mother or her brother of having committed such a terrible crime any more than I could ever suspect either of my children.”
“I think you are all of you making a mistake,” said Edward Rumbold. “There's no reason to suppose that Matthews was murdered by any one of you. Are you so sure that there was no one outside his family who could have done it?”
Guy stared at him. “Who on earth?” he asked bluntly.
“I don't know, but I think that if I were you I would rather believe that it must have been an outsider than make myself ill with quite groundless suspicions of my own people, said Rumbold gently, but with a look that sent the blood rushing to Guy's cheeks.
“I'd rather have it cleared up,” said Stella decidedly.
Rumbold said, smiling down at her: “Well, that's a sure sign you don't really wonder whether your mother or your brother committed the crime,” he said.
“I never heard of such a thing!” said Miss Matthews. “Oh, you're not going, Mr Rumbold? Why, you've barely finished your tea!”
“He is probably going to supplement it elsewhere,” remarked Randall. “And I'm sure I don't blame him,” he added, casting a glance at the somewhat meagrely furnished cake-stand. “There is a certain Lenten spirit clinging to my dear Aunt Harriet's tea-parties which only the few know how to appreciate.”
Stella gave a giggle, and even Mrs Matthews bit her lip. Harriet Matthews sat bolt upright in her chair, and said: “I did not ask you to tea here, Randall, and I did not ask Mr Rumbold either, though I am always glad to see Trim, as I hope he knows. And if he finds my tea insufficient —”
“Thank you, thank you, but I have had an excellent tea!” Rumbold said hastily. “You know how much I like those little scones of yours, Miss Matthews. I tell my wife she never gives me anything half as good. Now, please don't any of you disturb yourselves! I can find my way out.”
In obedience to a glance from his mother Guy put down his plate and got up. But Randall also had risen, and waved Guy back to his chair. “Don't lose your chance of the last slice of cake,” he said. “You, after all, are going to dine here. I will show Mr Rumbold out.” He moved to the door as he spoke, and opened it, and held it for the elder man to pass through.
“There's really no need for you to bother,” said Rumbold, picking up his hat from the hall-table.
“It is a pleasure,” replied Randall. “The society of my relatives can only be enjoyed with frequent intervals.”
Rumbold looked at him, half in amusement, half in reproof. “Why do you come if you feel like that?” he asked. “If you'll forgive my saying so, your presence isn't exactly conducive to peace.”
“No, but don't you think it's nice for them to have someone to vent their feelings on?” said Randall in his most urbane voice. “They are all of them just a trifle on edge, as you may have noticed.”
“It's an extraordinarily unpleasant situation for them,” replied Rumbold seriously.
Randall strolled with him out of the house. “Oh, extraordinarily,” he agreed. “Did anything of interest transpire at the Inquest?”
“Nothing at all. The police asked for an adjournment as soon as Mrs Lupton had given her evidence.”
“Considering all things, that was to be expected,” said Randall. “I take it that our engaging young doctor figured largely?”
“He was one of the witnesses, yes. I thought he made a very good one.”
“He probably would,” said Randall “And did everyone seem quite satisfied with his evidence?”
“Quite. There was no reason why they shouldn't be, you know. He's behaved perfectly properly throughout.”
“Yes, I noticed that,” said Randall. “Not one to lose his head, our ambitious doctor.”
The sneer was thinly veiled. Rumbold hesitated, and then said: “I won't pretend not to know what you're hinting at, but why do you do it? Have you anything against Fielding?”
“I find him entirely insupportable,” replied Randall calmly.
“That may make you wish to suspect him, but it is hardly a reason for doing so,” said Rumbold.
“I stand rebuked,” bowed Randall.
They had reached the gate by this time. Rumbold turned, and held out his hand. “Well, I don't know that I actually meant to rebuke you,” he said, “but I am a much older man than you are, Matthews, and perhaps you will allow me to advise you not to drop that sort of remark in your cousin's hearing. For one thing, it isn't particularly kind, and for another I have an idea that she's got quite enough to worry her in that quarter without having anything added.”
Randall's eyes opened wide. Edward Rumbold was momentarily startled by their curious brilliance, and could not be sure that the expression they held was a pleasant one. The next instant the insolent lids had drooped over them again. “Is that so?” Randall said. “I am quite in your debt.”
He wended his way back to the house, and entered the drawing-room to find his two aunts, their own differences forgotten for the moment, engaged in extolling the virtues of their late guest, and deploring the vulgarity of his wife.
“Such a cultured man!” sighed Mrs Matthews. “One cannot help wondering —”
“— what he saw in her,” cut in Stella. “He saw a pretty face, and a kind heart.”
“That hat!” shuddered Mrs Matthews. “The commonest shade of pink! And at her age, too!”
“Most unsuitable,” agreed Miss Matthews. “Not at all the sort of hat to wear at an Inquest. I was quite shocked.”
Stella got up from her floor-cushion, and moved away to the other end of the room. The two elder ladies continued their stimulating conversation, and by the time they had agreed that the sole reason why Mr Rumbold, who must really be extremely wealthy (because all wool-exporters were), should live in quite a moderate-sized house, like Holly Lodge, was that his wife was probably only accustomed to a Council house, perfect harmony reigned between them, to vanish abruptly, however, upon Mrs Matthews' ringing the bell to have the tea-things cleared away. This made it necessary for Miss Matthews immediately to pour herself out another cup, and as it was not only overpoweringly strong but also tepid, her temper became once more impaired, and the respective perfections and imperfections of Edward and Dolly Rumbold were forgotten in her own rankling grievances.
Guy, who seemed unable to occupy himself in any rational way, made another attempt to find out from Randall what line the police were following. Randall professed complete ignorance, and when Guy showed a disposition to pursue the subject, got up with a worldweary air, and quite firmly took his leave.
No one evinced any desire to accompany him to the front door, so he strolled out by himself, and had got into his car, and switched on the engine when he suddenly perceived Dr Fielding striding up the drive towards the house. Randall watched him, a singularly unpleasant expression in his eyes, and after a moment switched his engine off again. By the time the doctor came abreast the saturnine look had vanished, and the thin lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “Ah, how do you do, doctor?” Randall drawled, and drew off one washleather glove, and extended his hand.
Fielding did not look particularly pleased to see him, but he shook hands, and said that it was some time since they had met. “I missed you at the Inquest,” he remarked.
“That was hardly surprising,” said Randall. “I wasn't there.”
“Oh, weren't you?” said Fielding.
“No,” said Randall. “I thought it would be dull, and probably vulgar. But I'm sorry I didn't hear your evidence,” he added politely. “I understand you provided the star-turn of an otherwise mediocre performance.”
“Indeed!” The doctor looked at him somewhat warily. “In what way, I wonder?”
“In your demeanour, my dear doctor, which I understand to have been little short of noble. And in your testimony, of course, which I'm sure was masterly.”
Fielding drew in his breath. “You're too kind. I am not unaccustomed to giving evidence in my professional capacity.”
“But in such difficult circumstances!” said Randall. “And so many witnesses show a lamentable tendency to lose their heads. Not that I expected you to do that, I need scarcely say.”
“Thank you,” said Fielding, with heavy irony. “There was no reason why I should lose my head.”
“No,” agreed Randall, “everything seems to have been conducted in the politest way. No awkward questions asked, no nerve-racking cross-examination. I have always felt that to be cross-examined would be enough to shake the stoutest nerve.”
“Let us hope then that you will never be called upon to face such an ordeal,” said Fielding.
“That is very nice of you, and seems to call for a like response,” said Randall. “I can do no less than hope that you will not be called upon to face it either.”
“I am not much alarmed by the prospect,” replied Fielding with a slight smile. “If this business comes to a trial, I shall naturally have to appear.”
Randall shook his head. “It has all been most unlucky,” he remarked. “For the murderer, I mean. Who could have supposed that my dear Aunt Gertrude would have been the instrument chosen to upset one of the neatest murders of the century?”
“I could wish for the family's sake that the truth had never come to light, certainly,” said Fielding. “It is most unpleasant for them.” He met Randall's satirical look fair and square. “It is even rather unpleasant for me,” he continued deliberately. “Quite a number of people, I imagine, think that because I am a doctor I ought instantly to have realised that Matthews died from a somewhat obscure poison.”
“Oh, there is bound to be talk,” Randall answered cheerfully. “People have such suspicious minds. I daresay they attach a ridiculous amount of importance to that bottle of tonic which was so fortunately smashed.”
“Fortunately?” repeated Fielding. “Hardly fortunate from my point of view!”
“Did I say fortunately?” inquired Randall. “I meant unfortunately, of course.”
“Happily the tonic was not made up at the dispensary,” said Fielding.
“No, I didn't expect that it would be,” said Randall.
Fielding's jaw became a shade more prominent. “Moreover,” he said, “nicotine is hardly a poison which a doctor would use, as you, with your medical training, of course, know, Matthews.”
Randall had been gazing meditatively through his windscreen, but he turned his head at that, and said with a crooked smile: “So you know that, do you?”
“Oh yes!” said Fielding. “Your uncle mentioned it once some time ago. He said that you were a most promising student, but that you abandoned the career when your father died.”
“And have you passed this information on to the police?” asked Randall.
“No,” said Fielding. “I did not consider it any business of mine.”
Randall leaned forward, and switched on his engine again. “Well, you should,” he said. “Superintendent Hannasyde would love it.”
Fielding shrugged. “Oh, I've no wish to make mischief,” he said.
Randall gave a little croon of mirth. “You flatter yourself, my dear doctor, really you do! Pass on your information: it will brighten the Superintendent's dull life, and it won't hurt me.”
“In that case, why should I bother?” said Fielding, and with a nod of farewell turned and walked on to the house.
His errand was to warn its inmates against making any statement to the Press. He had returned from his afternoon round to find his own house besieged with reporters, and in consequence he was in no very pleasant mood. Finding his fiancée inclined to treat the peril of the Press as a minor matter, he said somewhat tartly that he wished she would consider his position a little. Mrs Matthews, wearing a worldly-wise smile, at once assured him that he had nothing to fear. “I saw one of the reporters myself,” she said gravely. “And I think I made him understand how we all feel about it. I talked to him—words seemed to be sent to me—and I think he realised, and was ashamed.”
Guy said uneasily: “I say, mother, you didn't give them any sort of statement, did you?”
“Dear boy, haven't I told you that I didn't?”
Guy said no more, but the doctor, when Stella saw him off, said: “Really, Stella, I do think you might have prevented your mother seeing that fellow! If you don't object to publicity, I do. This case is doing me quite enough harm as it is.”
“I expect,” said Stella, in a small, very steady voice, “it does you harm to be known to be engaged to me, doesn't it?”
“It's no use discussing that,” said Fielding. “I don't suppose it does me much good, but it can't be helped.”
“It might be,” said Stella, raising her eyes to his face.
“My dear girl, please don't think I'm trying to back out of it,” he said.
Guy came out into the hall at that moment, so the conversation had to be suspended. Guy was as uneasy as the doctor, and said that he wouldn't mind betting that his mother had talked a lot of ghastly hot air to the reporter.
His mistrust of her was justified. Next morning the Daily Reflector carried a fat, black headline on its front page, a photograph of the Poplars, and another (inset) of Mrs Matthews stepping out of the court-room after the Inquest. When Guy came down to breakfast he found his aunt and sister with no less than four picture papers, indignantly reading extracts aloud to each other.
“ "Murdered Man's Sister in Suburban Poison Drama Refuses to Discuss Mystery Death",” read Stella in an awed voice. “ "We think it wiser to say nothing," says Mrs Zoë Matthews, the graceful fair-haired widow concerned in the mysterious poisoning case at Grinley Heath which is baffling the Scotland Yard experts." Mummy will love that bit Guy, look at the photograph of Mummy! I ask you!”
“Listen to this!” begged Miss Matthews in a trembling voice. “I never heard anything to equal it, never!”
“ "Wearing mourning"—I should like to know what else she would be wearing!—"and with a look of strain in her sad eyes, charming Mrs Zoë Matthews, the widowed sister-in-law of Gregory Matthews, whose death under mysterious circumstances took place at his residence at Grinley Heath a week ago, received me yesterday in her sunny drawing-room." Her drawing-room, indeed! Oh, I've no doubt she told him it belonged to her, but as for it being sunny it never gets a ray of sun all day, as she very well knows!”
Guy, quite pale with dismay, came hurriedly across the room to look over his aunt's shoulder at the offending paragraph. “ "One has to remember that life goes on… irreparable loss as much a mystery to us as to Scotland Yard…" Good God, she can't have said all this muck!”
“Of course she said it!” snapped Miss Matthews. “It's just the sort of rubbish I should expect her to talk. "There was a great bond between my poor brother-in-law and me!"… oh, was there? And not one word about what my feelings are! . . "Calm and self-possessed."… Selfpossessed! Brazen would be nearer the mark! Oh, I've no patience with it!”
Guy rescued the paper, which Miss Matthews seemed to be inclined to rend in pieces, and retired with it to the window. Stella, deep meanwhile in the Morning Star, suddenly gave a gasp, and exclaimed: “Of all the cheek! Aunt Harriet, listen to this! "Mr Matthews' death was a terrible shock to us all,” pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry, the twenty-three-year-old housemaid at the Poplars, informed our representative yesterday." There's miles more of it, and even a bit about Rose's young man. Oh, she says they all feel it as a personal loss!”
“What?” shrieked Miss Matthews.
“There's a photograph too,” said Stella.
Miss Matthews snatched the paper from her. “She leaves the house today, month or no month!” she declared. “The impertinence of it! Personal loss! What's more it's a lie, because every servant we ever had hated Gregory! She'd never have dared to do this if she hadn't been under notice!”
Beecher came into the room at this moment, and was promptly glared at by his incensed mistress. “Do you know anything about this disgraceful affair?” demanded Miss Matthews, striking the paper with her hand.
Beecher coughed. “Yes, miss. Very reprehensible indeed. Mrs Beecher has been giving Rose a piece of her mind. Mr Randall is on the phone, miss.”
“What does he want?” growled Guy.
“He did not say, sir.”
“Well, I'm not going to answer it,” said Guy, sitting down at the table. “Tell him we're out.”
“You go, Stella,” said her aunt. “Though what he can want I'm sure I don't know.”
Stella sighed, and put down the paper. “Why it should have to be me I fail to understand,” she remarked, but she went out into the hall and picked up the receiver. “Hullo?” she said in a discouraging voice. “Stella speaking. What is it?”
Randall's dulcet voice answered her. “Good-morning, my sweet. Tell me at once—I am quite breathless with excitement—why have I never been privileged to set eyes on pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry?”
“Oh, damn you, shut up!” said Stella crossly. “What is it you want?”
A laugh floated to her ears. “Only that, darling.”
“Then go to hell!” said Stella, and slammed the receiver down.
Others beside Randall had seen the picture papers that morning, and it was not long before Mrs Lupton arrived at the Poplars in a state of outraged majesty. She wished to know whether Rose had been turned out of the house, and if not why not; whether Mrs Matthews realised the height of her own folly; what her sister Harriet had been about to let a reporter set foot inside the house; and what steps were being taken by the police to discover Gregory Matthews' murderer. No one was able to give an answer to this last question, and Mrs Lupton, not in any hasty spirit, but as the result of impartial consideration, pronounced her verdict: “The case is being handled with the grossest incompetence,” she declared. “I do not find that the police are making the smallest effort to trace my unfortunate brother's assassin.”
This harsh judgment, however, was not quite fair to Superintendent Hannasyde, who at that very moment was seated in Giles Carrington's office with Gregory Matthews' Pass-book open on the desk between them.
“Do you know what connection Matthews had with a man called Hyde?” Hannasyde asked.
Giles shook his head. “No, I'm afraid I don't. Why do you want to know?”
“I've been going through these Bank accounts,” replied Hannasyde, “and it appears that a considerable number of the cheques paid into his Bank by Matthews came from this Hyde. Take a look. They're all rather large sums, and seem to have been paid in regularly once a month.”
Giles took the Pass-book, and studied the marked entries. “Looks as though he were running some sort of a business,” he remarked. “If he was, I never heard of it. Do you suppose he owned a Pawnbroker's, or a Fish-and Chips shop, and didn't want anyone to know of it?”
“I can't make it out at all. It may be something of that nature. I've had an interview with the Bank Manager, but he doesn't know any more than you do. The cheques were all drawn on the City Branch of Foster's Bank. The Chief Cashier remembered them at once. I'll have to go and see what I can find out there.” He got up, and held out his hand for the Pass-book. “I came to see you first because it's always a bit of a job getting information out of Banks.”
“Sorry,” said Giles. “Nothing doing at all. I'll tell you what, though: if anyone knows, Randall Matthews would. It's my belief there's precious little about his uncle that young gentleman doesn't know.”
Hannasyde smiled rather grimly. “Yes, I had thought of him. But I haven't found Mr Randall Matthews precisely falling over himself to take me into his confidence. Still, I can try him if all else fails.”
He left Adam Street, and journeyed east, to the City. At Foster's Bank the manager was civil, but by no means friendly. The Bank, he said, was no doubt what Superintendent Hannasyde would consider old-fashioned; they had old-fashioned ways in it; he himself greatly deplored the modern methods of the police in trying to obtain information through Banks. Time was…
Hannasyde, who never made enemies wantonly, listened, and sympathised, and quite agreed with the manager. In the end he got some information out of him, though not very much. The manager knew very little about John Hyde, who hardly ever came in person to the Bank. He had opened an account a good many years ago now. It was believed that he was an agent for some northern firm of manufacturers; his address was 17 Gadsby Row; the manager regretted he could give Hannasyde no further information.
Gadsby Row, which was a narrow, crowded street in the heart of the City, did not take Hannasyde long to find. He turned down it from the busy thoroughfare which it bisected, and, threading his way between hurrying typists and bare-headed errand-boys, soon arrived at No. 17. This was found to be a newsagent's shop, which also sold the cheaper kinds of cigarettes and tobacco. It was a mean little place, with dirty, fly-blown windows, and it bore the name H. Brown on the fascia board. A couple of steps led up into the interior of the shop, which was dark, and small, and smelled of stale smoke. Hannasyde walked in, and almost at once a door at the back of the shop opened, and a stout woman in an overall came into the shop, and asked him what he wanted.
“I am looking for a Mr John Hyde,” said Hannasyde. “I understand this is where he lives.”
“He ain't in,” she replied shortly. “Don't know when he'll be back.”
“Where can I find him, do you know?”
“I couldn't say, I'm sure.”
The door at the back of the shop opened again, and a middle-aged man with a wispy moustache and a pair of watery blue eyes came out in his shirt-sleeves, and said: “What's the gentleman want, Emma?”
“Someone asking for Mr Hyde,” she answered indifferently.
“You'll have to call back. He's not here.”
“That's what I told him,” corroborated his wife. “Is this where he lives?” asked Hannasyde.
“No, it isn't,” said Mr Brown, eyeing him with dawning dislike.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where he does live?”
“No, I'm sorry, I can't. Take a message, if you like.” Hannasyde produced a card, and gave it to him.
“That's my name,” he said. “It may help your memory a bit.”
Mr Brown read the legend on the card, and shot a swift, lowering look at the Superintendent. His wife craned her neck to see the card, and perceptibly changed colour. She stared at Hannasyde and thrust out her lip a little. “We don't want no busies here!” she announced. “What d'you want to know?”
Hannasyde, who was accustomed to being regarded by the Mrs Browns of this world with deep distrust, did not set a great deal of store by her obvious uneasiness, but replied in a business-like voice: “I've told you what I want to know. Where can I find Mr John Hyde?”
“How can we tell you what we don't know?” she cried. “He ain't here, that's all.”
Her husband nudged her away. “That's O.K., Emma: you get back to the kitchen.” He put the Superintendent's card down on the counter, and said with a smile that showed a set of discoloured teeth: “That's right, what she says. We haven't set eyes on Mr Hyde, not since last Tuesday.”
“What does he do here?”
Mr Brown caressed his stubbly chin. “Well, you see, in a manner of speaking he owns the place.”
Hannasyde frowned. “You mean he owns this shop?”
“No, not to say the shop, he doesn't. The whole house is his.”
“He's your landlord, in fact?”
“That's it,” agreed Mr Brown. “He's an agent for one of them big firms up north. I don't know as he's got what you'd call a fixed address, barring this. You see, he travels about a lot in the way of business.”
“Do you mean that he has an office here, or what?”
“That's right You can see it if you like. There ain't anything there.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Well, I couldn't say offhand,” said Mr Brown vaguely. “A goodish time. Somewhere round about seven or eight years, I think.”
“What age man is he? What does he look like?”
“He's nothing particular to look at. I don't know as I could hardly describe him. He hasn't got the sort of face you can take hold of. Middle-aged, he is, and keeps himself to himself. What do you want with him?”
“That's my business. How often does he come here?”
“Pretty often,” Mr Brown said sullenly.
“Come along, answer! Does he come here every day?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. It ain't nothing to do with me. He comes as he pleases.”
“When did you see him last?”
“I told you. It was last Tuesday. I ain't laid eyes on him since.”
“Did he say he was going away?”
“No, he didn't. He didn't say nothing.”
“Didn't give you any address for his letters to be forwarded to?”
Mr Brown shot him another of his lowering glances. “There hasn't been no letters.”
There was little more to be got out of him. After one or two more questions which were answered in the same grudging manner, Hannasyde left the shop. The personality of Mr John Hyde, about which he had felt, an hour earlier, only a mild curiosity, had suddenly become a problem of unexpected importance. The elusive Mr Hyde would have to be found, and his connection with Gregory Matthews traced to its source. It was a job for the department, but while he was on his way to Scotland Yard Hannasyde all at once changed his mind, and instead of going to Whitehall, got on an omnibus bound for Piccadilly, and went to pay a call on Mr Randall Matthews.