“Women!” said the Inspector, half-an-hour later. “Women!”
They had just come away from an interview with Gertrude Lupton, and there was some excuse for the Inspector's voice of loathing. Hannasyde laughed, but Sergeant Hemingway, always interested in new types, said: “Now this is what I call a nice morning. You wouldn't believe anyone would start a scandal in the family just for the fun of it, would you?”
“Not fun, jealousy,” Hannasyde corrected. “And she happened to be right”
“Right or wrong, it's my belief she hadn't a bit of reason for wanting that post-mortem,” said the indignant Inspector. “I'm not surprised her husband looked so uncomfortable. More shame to him, letting her run riot the way she does!”
“Poor devil!” said Hannasyde. “All the same, but for her there wouldn't have been a case at all, so really we've nothing to grumble about, whatever her motive may have been.”
The Sergeant scratched the tip of his nose in a reflective manner. “No motive. Bit of womanly intuition, if you ask me. Funny things, women.”
“You don't believe in that, do you?” asked the Inspector scornfully.
The Sergeant looked at him with a penetrating eye. “You a married man, Inspector?”
“I'm not.”
“That was what you call a rhetorical question,” said the Sergeant. “I know you aren't. You'd believe in woman's instinct fast enough if you were. Why, they're always having fits of it, even the best of them, and about once in a dozen times it turns out to be right. Granite-faced Gertrude had a Feeling someone did her brother in, and if you knew as much about woman's Feelings as I do, you wouldn't go around saying she did it out of spite. Not she! What she thought was: "I don't like any of the people in this house." And believe me, Inspector, once a woman gets a thought like that into her head she'll develop a Feeling against the whole lot in double-quick time.”
“It wouldn't surprise me,” said the Inspector, who had taken an unreasoning dislike to Mrs Lupton, “if we found she did it, and was acting like this to put us off the scent.”
The Sergeant exchanged an indulgent glance with Hannasyde. “Bad psychology,” he said. “She's all right.”
“Wasting our time!” snorted the Inspector. “There wasn't a thing she could tell us we didn't know already. Don't you agree, Superintendent?”
Hannasyde, who had not been paying much attention, said: “Agree? Oh! No, I don't agree with either of you. I think she had more than a Feeling, and I think she did tell us several things.”
The Sergeant nodded. “I thought you were on to something,” he remarked.
“You were wrong,” said Hannasyde calmly. “But this Lupton woman, though unpleasant, is scrupulously honest. In the Matthews household we interviewed a number of people who were all frightened, and who therefore said whatever they thought would be safest. Mrs Lupton isn't afraid of me or of any other policeman, and she was rigidly determined not to make the smallest accusation against anyone. She isn't being spiteful; she's out for justice. Which makes what she did say quite valuable. When a woman like Miss Matthews says that her sister-in-law is equal to anything, I disbelieve her, just as I discount Mrs Matthews' delicate implication that Harriet would have liked to have seen her brother put quietly out of the way. But when an uncompromisingly honest woman like Mrs Lupton tells me that her sister-in-law will go to any lengths to get her own way, I begin to sit up and take notice. The people she suspects are Mrs Matthews, the boy Guy, and the doctor.”
“Sweeping sort of suspicion,” commented the Inspector.
“No, I don't think so,” said Hannasyde. “She ruled out the girl, Stella, and I got the impression that she dislikes that girl cordially. But she said positively that Stella would not have done such a thing, which to my mind gave a good deal of weight to her pronouncement that any one of the other three have it in them to commit murder. I know nothing about female intuition, Hemingway, but if Mrs Lupton suspected foul play it wasn't because she detected anything odd about her brother's body, but because she knew that the situation at the Poplars had been tense enough to end in murder. Which is what I wanted to find out.”
The Sergeant nodded. “Right, Chief.”
Inspector Davis was not so easily satisfied. “Yet, but what I'd like to know is, how did Matthews take that poison? It's worrying me a lot, that is, because so far we haven't discovered a blessed thing he swallowed that the others didn't, barring the tonic he may have had after dinner.”
“Guy Matthews might conceivably have dropped the poison into that whiskey-and-soda from a phial concealed in his hand,” suggested Hannasyde.
The Inspector gave a disparaging sniff:
“Don't you fret, Inspector,” said Hemingway. “The Chief's after something a bit more recondite. Am I right, Super?”
“More or less. Anyway, we'll go back to town now, and look up Randall Matthews.”
Parting from Inspector Davis at the Police Station, Hannasyde and his subordinate travelled back to London on the Underground Railway. Randall Matthews rented a flat in a road off St James's Street, but was not in at one o'clock, when the Superintendent called. His manservant, eyeing the police with disfavour, declined to hazard any opinion of the probable time of his master's return, but Hannasyde and his Sergeant, coming back at three o'clock, found a Mercedes car parked outside the house, and rightly conjectured that its owner was Mr Randall Matthews.
This time the manservant, instead of addressing them through the smallest possible opening of the front door, reluctantly held it wide for the Superintendent to pass through.
The two men were ushered into a small hall which was decorated in shades of grey, and left there while Benson went to inform his master of their arrival.
The Sergeant looked round rather dubiously, and scratched his chin with the brim of his bowler hat. “What you might call Arty,” he remarked. “Ever thought that decor is highly significant, Super? Take that divan.”
“What about it?” asked Hannasyde, glancing a little scornfully at the piece in question, which was wide, and low, and covered with pearl-grey velvet.
“Not sure,” replied the Sergeant. “If it had upwards of a dozen cushions with gold tassels chucked on it carelesslike I should have known what to think. But it hasn't. All the same, Super, we can write this bird down as having expensive tastes. Would you call the pictures oriental?”
“Chinese prints,” replied Hannasyde briefly.
“I wouldn't wonder,” agreed the Sergeant. “It all fits in with what I was thinking.”
The looking-glass door at one side of the hall opened at this moment, and Randall Matthews strolled towards them, holding Hannasyde's card between his finger and thumb.
“More decor,” muttered the Sergeant.
It could hardly have been by design, but Randall was dressed in a suit of pearl-grey flannel that harmonised beautifully with the background. He raised his eyes from the card, and said: “Ah, good afternoon, Superintendent! I might almost say, Welcome to my humble abode. Won't you come in?” He made a gesture towards the room he had come from. “Both of you, of course. You must introduce me to your friend.”
“Sergeant Hemingway,” said Hannasyde, his calm eyes slightly frowning.
“How do you do, Sergeant?” said Randall affably. “Ah, Benson, take the Sergeant's hat.”
The Sergeant, equal to this as to any other occasion and growing more bird-like with interest every moment, handed his hat to the servant, and followed Hannasyde into a room that looked out on to the street, and seemed, with the exception of its bookshelves, to be entirely composed of Spanish leather.
Randall picked up a box containing Russian cigarettes, and offered it to his visitors. It was declined, so he selected one for himself, and lit it, and waved his hand in the direction of two chairs. “But won't you sit down? And before we go any further, do tell me how my poor uncle was poisoned!”
Hannasyde raised his brows. “Did you then think that he had been poisoned, Mr Matthews? I understand that you described Mrs Lupton's suspicion as a canard.”
“I'm sure that must be correct,” agreed Randall. “It is very much the sort of thing I should unhesitatingly say of my dear Aunt Gertrude's pronouncements. But I have so much intuition, my dear Superintendent. Your genial presence convicts me of error. I am not at all ashamed to acknowledge my mistakes. I make very few.”
“You are to be congratulated,” commented Hannasyde dryly. “Your uncle was poisoned.”
“Yes, Superintendent, yes. You would not otherwise be here. Is it permitted that I should know how?”
“He died from nicotine poisoning,” replied Hannasyde.
“What a shame!” said Randall. “It sounds very common—almost vulgar. I think I will throw away the rest of my cigarette.”
“I don't propose to take up your time —”
“My valuable time,” interpolated Randall gently.
“—any longer than I need, Mr Matthews, but as I find that you are not only the heir to your uncle's property but also the head of the family, I thought it only right to call on you. It will be necessary for the police to go through the deceased's papers.”
“Ah, you want my uncle's solicitor,” said Randall. “I am sure you will like him.”
“I don't think I have his name,” Hannasyde said. “Perhaps you would be good enough —”
“Certainly,” said Randall. “His name is Carrington.” Hannasyde looked up quickly from his notebook.
“Carrington?”
“Giles Carrington. I think there are more of them, and I am sure I went to Adam Street to visit them.”
“Thank you,” said Hannasyde. “I know Mr Giles Carrington very well. Now, if you would answer one or two questions, Mr Matthews, I need not detain you. When did you last see your uncle?”
Randall wrinkled his brow. “Do you know, I seem to have heard those words before? Ought it not to be father?”
Hannasyde was aware of rising annoyance. He curbed it, and replied evenly: “When was it, please?”
“Surely the Civil Wars?” said Randall. “Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought we were talking about pictures! I last saw my uncle on the Sunday before he died. That would be —”
“May 12th,” said Hannasyde. “You were at Grinley Heath on that day?”
“I was indeed,” said Randall with a faint shudder. “You will forgive my curiosity, Mr Matthews, but have you any particular reason for remembering the occasion?” asked Hannasyde, observing the shudder.
“It is quite indelibly printed on my mind,” said Randall. “My visit coincided with that of my cousin, Mrs—I think it's Crewe, but I'm not altogether sure.”
“Is that all!”
“No,” said Randall. “It was by no means all. She brought her regrettable offspring with her, and appeared to think it a fortunate circumstance that I should be present to admire it.”
Hannasyde ignored this, and said in his curtest tone: “And that was the last time you saw the deceased?”
“Yes,” said Randall.
“Were you on good terms with him?”
“Quite,” said Randall indifferently.
“Intimate terms, Mr Matthews?”
Randall looked at him through his lashes. “I shall have to ask you to construe, my dear Superintendent.”
“Let me put it this way: were you in his confidence?”
“I shouldn't think so,” replied Randall. “There is just that indefinable something about me which does not lead my family to confide in me.”
“You cannot tell me, then, whether he had any enemies?”
“No,” said Randall softly. “And I cannot tell you whether he had any friends either.”
“Oh!” Hannasyde cast him a shrewd glance under his brows. “Do you know of anyone who had any reason to wish him dead?”
“Other than myself?” asked Randall.
The Sergeant jumped. Hannasyde answered: “Had you reason, Mr Matthews?”
Randall smiled at him. “My very dear sir, I'm the heir. Now do let us understand each other! There's not the least need for you to ask me careful questions. I shall be delighted to answer anything you choose to ask me. In fact, I'm positively burning to assist you to track down the murderer.”
“Thank you,” said Hannasyde.
“Not at all,” replied Randall. “Only you mustn't be shy. You would like to know the state of my Bank balance, for one thing. That's not the sort of question I can answer offhand, but I will give you a letter of introduction to my Bank manager.”
“I should prefer it if you would give me an account of your movements on May 14th,” said Hannasyde.
“What could be easier? I was naturally at Newmarket,” answered Randall at once.
“You are fond of racing, Mr Matthews?”
“Very,” said Randall, moving over to his desk, and beginning to jot down something on a half-sheet of notepaper. “Returning to town after the 3.30 race, in the company of one Frank Clutterbuck, whose address I am going to give you, I came back to this flat, changed my clothes—vide my man Benson—and repaired to Duval's, a restaurant no doubt known to you. Mention my name to the maitre d' hotel. I was joined there by two friends, whose names and addresses I am at the moment writing down for you. From Duval's we went to the Palladium—Row B, in the stalls—8, 9, and 10. Leaving the Palladium shortly before the end of the performance, I became a slave to duty, and drove but I stupidly omitted to take the taxi-driver's number to South Street, where I made a belated but graceful appearance at Mrs Massingham's dance. I will give you her address too. Somewhere in the region of three o'clock I left South Street, came back to this flat, and went to bed.” He rose, and handed the sheet of paper to Hannasyde. “Where I remained, Superintendent, until Mr Giles Carrington rang me up, somewhere between eleven and twelve in the morning, to inform me that my uncle was dead, a medical inquiry in progress, and a police inquiry imminent.”
Hannasyde folded the paper, and put it away in his notebook. “Were you surprised, Mr Matthews?”
“Would not you be?” said Randall.
“I think I should—if I knew of no one who could have had any motive for the murder.”
Randall smiled, and answered rather mockingly: “Ah, I think you must be referring to—er—family dissensions. Which of my relatives would you like me to incriminate by some damaging statement? I have hardly any preference.”
“I don't want you to incriminate anyone, thank you, Mr Matthews, but if you know anything relevant to the case I should like to hear it.”
Randall stretched out his hand and took a cigarette from the box beside him, and began to tap it on his thumb-nail. “But I don't think I do know anything relevant,” he said sadly.
“In that case we won't take up any more of your time,” said Hannasyde, and got up.
Randall touched a bell on his desk, and upon Benson's appearance instructed him, in his languid way, to show the visitors out.
As he walked down the stairs beside the Superintendent, Sergeant Hemingway said: “A little too smooth-spoken, Chief. Just a little too smooth.” Hannasyde grunted.
“Alibi and all,” pursued the Sergeant. “Very pat. Gave it out as though he was darned pleased about it. Pick-a-hole-in-that-if-you-can. Question is, can we?”
“I shouldn't think so. You can check up on it—as a matter of form. I'm going to see Mr Carrington.”
“What you might call the bright spot in a bad day,” remarked the Sergeant. “Funny thing, running slap into him right on top of my mentioning the Vereker Case. I wonder if Miss Vereker—oh, she's Mrs Carrington now, isn't she? I wonder if she still breeds bull-terriers?”
“I'll ask him,” said Hannasyde.
“You might ask him at the same time whether young Vereker has got himself hanged yet,” recommended the Sergeant.
Mr Giles Carrington did not keep Superintendent Hannasyde waiting for long, He got up from his big, untidy desk as Hannasyde was ushered into his room, and came forward with his hand held out. “Well, this is indeed a pleasant surprise!” he said. “How are you, Hannasyde? Sit down!”
Hannasyde shook hands warmly, and accepted a chair and a cigarette. “How are you, Mr Carrington? And Mrs Carrington?”
“Oh, we're both very fit, thanks!”
“And Mr Vereker? Hemingway—you remember him?—wants to know if he's got himself hanged yet. Those pen-and-ink sketches he did of the police still rankle!”
Giles laughed. “He went abroad immediately the case was over, and I'm happy to be able to tell you that a marriage has now been arranged, and will shortly take place.”
“Miss Rivers? That's splendid. I hope you'll give him my best wishes.”
“I will, with pleasure. If you like to drop in and see us one evening you can give them to him yourself. He's staying with us at the moment.”
“Nothing I'd like better,” said Hannasyde. “But the sight of me might bring up what must be pretty painful recollections, mightn't it?”
“You never know with Kenneth,” replied Giles. “Quite probably not.” He cast the Superintendent an appraising look. “By the way, what does the sight of you portend, Hannasyde? Business or pleasure?”
“Both,” returned Hannasyde. “It was a great pleasure to me to work with you, you know.”
“Very nicely put, but it won't wash. I know nothing about the late Gregory Matthews.”
The Superintendent's eyes twinkled. “Now, now, Mr Carrington! None of that Holmes-stuff! Of course it's the Matthews case.”
“Was he poisoned?” asked Giles.
“Yes, he was. Nicotine. I shall want to go through his papers.”
“All right. Tomorrow suit you?”
Hannasyde nodded. “We shan't find anything. We're five days behind this murder. And they have to put me on it! Tell me what you know about Matthews, Mr Carrington.”
“Nothing much. He's been a client of ours for about five years. Digby Bryant used to handle his affairs, and Matthews came to us when he died. I gather he didn't hit it off with young Bryant. He hasn't troubled us much. A few routine jobs. I wasn't in his confidence.”
“Know how he made his money?”
“Oh, sort of financial punter, wasn't he? He had an office in the City, and I think played about with stocks and shares. Started life in a broker's office, I believe, and I suppose struck lucky.”
“We'll take a look at that office of his. Do you know anything about the rest of the family?”
“Nothing except what I saw when I went down to read the Will.”
“You're not being at all helpful,” complained Hannasyde. “What did you make of Randall Matthews?”
Giles tipped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Well, since you ask me, I can't say I took to him much,” he replied.
“Nor did I. Know anything about him?”
Giles shook his head. “Young man-about-town: not in my line of country. Are you interested in him?”
“I'm interested in anybody connected with this case. Hemingway says it's like pea-soup. It's this damned nicotine, Mr Carrington. It may have been swallowed, and the probability is that it wasn't. There was a bad scratch on the back of the deceased's left hand.”
“Borgia-stuff!” said Giles incredulously.
“Sounds like it, doesn't it? But one of our experts is of the opinion that the poison could have been absorbed that way. Well, the sister, Harriet Matthews, was the last person to be with Matthews on the night he died—though she didn't admit that to me. We can say, if you like, that she inflicted the scratch, but —”
“With a pair of poisoned nail-scissors,” interrupted Giles derisively. “Go on, I like to see you becoming romantic.”
Hannasyde smiled. “I know. But it's no joke, Mr Carrington. Suppose she inflicted the scratch, seemingly by accident, and then bathed it with lotion into which she'd dropped her poison?”
Just a moment,” said Giles. “Is Harriet Matthews the eccentric lady with the economy-mania?”
“That's the one.”
“Out of all your suspects what a choice to make! She wouldn't have the sense, let alone the knowledge.”
“Voluble and eccentric ladies aren't always so guileless as they seem, Mr Carrington. Not that I think it was she. I don't. But the trouble is there's no one I think it was. On the face of it the heir's the likeliest suspect. He lives high, probably beyond his income, and, if I'm not much mistaken, bets a lot. Clever fellow, and looks pretty coldblooded. What's more, he presented me with a detailed alibi which I don't expect to pick the smallest hole in. And I haven't, so far, a thing on him. He says he heard of his uncle's death through you. How did he take it?”
Giles reflected. “It was over the telephone, you know. Quite calmly, I think. I merely said that Matthews was dead, and added that there seemed to be some doubt about the cause of death, and that there was to be an autopsy.” He paused “He sounded distinctly annoyed about that, but I think one would be. No one likes a scandal in the home circle, after all.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't remember. Something about the incompetence of doctors, and that he'd better come round and see me.”
“Oh, he came to see you that day, did he? When?”
“Shortly before one. He was perfectly self-possessed. He came to arrange with me about reading the Will, and various other business matters.”
“He knew he was the heir, I suppose?”
“Oh yes! He's my fellow-executor.”
“Did he seem at all anxious to find out what had been happening down at Grinley Heath?”
“Not more than was natural. He wanted to know who was the fool who had started the murder-scare, but as I didn't know—”
“Who told him there was any question of murder? Did you?”
Giles looked at him. “No, I don't think I did. But it rather leaps to the mind when you hear there's to be a post-mortem, doesn't it? I suppose he assumed there was a suspicion of poisoning, same as I did. He didn't seem to me to set much store by it, though. He said he had no doubt that the various members of his family were running entirely true to type, and added that the temptation to go down and watch them making fools of themselves was too strong to be withstood. I believe he did go down to Grinley that afternoon.”
“I've no doubt,” said Hannasyde. “Very understandable that he should—and if there was any evidence at the Poplars waiting to be destroyed, even more understandable.”
“You sound a trifle peevish, my dear chap. Not like yourself.”
“Well, it's enough to make a saint swear, Mr Carrington: it really is! A man is poisoned on the evening of the 14th May. His own doctor finds natural causes, and is ready to sign the certificate, but one member of the family objects, so they think they'll have a post-mortem. The Divisional Surgeon makes no more of it than the family doctor, but the organs are sent up to the Home Office, as per regulations. No one at Grinley taking it seriously; no official action being taken. Result, it's five days before we get the case, during which time everyone connected with it has not only known that an inquiry was being conducted, but has also had plenty of time to dispose of whatever evidence there may have been. Dead man's room all nice and tidy, bottle of tonic providentially broken, everything cleared away.”
“Ah, I see!” smiled Giles. “You want the corpse discovered in situ, with the incriminating letter in the wastepaper basket, the glass (with traces of poison) on the table, and everything under lock and key until you arrive.”
Hannasyde gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, you'll admit it would be a lot easier to handle. By the way, you've got the dead man's keys, haven't you?”
“Yes, but I only took charge of them on Friday. Randall gave them to me, pending the result of the investigation.”
Hannasyde stared at him. “Thinks of everything, doesn't he? Very proper behaviour on the part of Mr Randall Matthews. And the rest of the family hates him.” He tapped his fingers on Giles' desk for a moment. “Get the Department to look into Mr Randall Matthews. Are you busy, Mr Carrington?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go with me to Gregory's office.”
Giles glanced at his watch. “All right, but I must be back at five. I've got an appointment.”
A taxi bore both men to a big block of flats in the City. During his lifetime Gregory Matthews had rented a single room on the fourth floor where he had apparently transacted his business. It was a small apartment, containing a desk, and a couple of leather chairs, a table with a typewriter on it, a large waste-paper basket, a filing-cabinet, and a safe. It was very tidy, and smelled stuffy from having been shut up.
“No torn-up letters here, Hannasyde,” Giles remarked. “One of those nice modern buildings where the charwoman lets herself in with a pass-key, and cleans the place each morning before you arrive.” He sat down at the desk, and began to inspect the keys on the ring he was holding. “What would you like first? Desk, safe, or cabinet?”
Hannasyde had picked up a diary from the table, and was looking through it. “I don't mind. Desk,” he said absently. “Parker and Snell—they sound as though they might be his brokers. Apparently he had an appointment with them on the 14th May. Doesn't tell us much.”
“Yes, they're his brokers,” said Giles, fitting a key into the top drawer of the desk. “Here you are.”
“Just a moment.” Hannasyde was turning the leaves of the diary backwards. “Practically no engagements recorded. Share prices jotted down each day. Seems to have had a catholic taste in investments… Monday 13th May: Lupton, 12.0 p.m.” He lowered the book. “Lupton? That's the brother-in-law. I wonder what he wanted to see him about?”
“Was Lupton the desiccated little man with the overpowering wife?” asked Giles.
“That's the fellow. Now why did Matthews make an appointment with him here when they lived in the same place? Might be useful to know that.”
Giles regarded him in some amusement. “You have a fearful and a wonderful mind, Hannasyde. I can think of a dozen reasons.”
“Oh, so can I, but you never know. Do you happen to know anything about a lady called Gladys Smith, living at 531 Fairleigh Court, Golders Green?”
“Never heard of her,” answered Giles, picking up some papers from the drawer he had opened. “Has she got anything to do with the case, or are you going to tell me an anecdote?”
“Her name and address are written here on the 9th May, that's all. No time mentioned, so it may not necessarily have been an appointment.”
“You seem to be catching at straws,” remarked Giles, glancing cursorily through the papers in his hand.
Hannasyde made a note of Mrs Smith's address. “Not much else to catch at. Sometimes important, too—straws. What have you got there? Anything?”
“Nothing of interest,” Giles said.
They went through the rest of the desk together, and turned next to the safe. Very little of importance was discovered there, but Hannasyde commandeered a Bank book, and a big ledger, and retired with them to the desk, and studied both for some time in silence.
Giles began to fill a pipe, and presently remarked: “I call this boring.” Hannasyde grunted. “Anything in the Bank book?” inquired Giles.
“Not at first glance. Seems to have kept his records a bit casually. Doesn't always show what he sold in order to buy some of these blocks of shares.” He sighed, and closed the book. “I shall have to go into it more thoroughly. Let's take a look at his filing cabinet.”
This revealed nothing of any interest. They went quickly through the little that was contained in it, and Giles, yawning, remarked that he was glad he was not a member of the C.I.D.
“A lot of people would be surprised if they knew how dull most of our work is,” replied Hannasyde. “I want to take charge of the Bank book, and the ledger, and that diary, Mr Carrington. I don't think there's anything else here. We'll hope for better luck at his house. Could you meet me at the Poplars at ten o'clock tomorrow morning?”
“I'll motor you down there,” said Giles. “I suppose you're now going to call on Gladys Smith?”
“Gladys Smith wants explaining,” answered Hannasyde imperturbably. “Who is she, and why does she figure all amongst Stock Exchange quotations, and appointments?”
“I don't know, but I'm sure you'll find out,” said Giles cordially. “You'll probably find she's a typist who applied for a job with Matthews, but I admire your zeal.”
“No sign that he ever employed a typist.”
“That doesn't prove that he wasn't going to,” retorted Giles.
“You're probably right,” said Hannasyde placidly.
But on the following morning, when he got into Giles' car, he said: “My straws are beginning to make a rope, Mr Carrington. She wasn't a typist in search of a job.”
“What?” said Giles. “Oh, Gladys Smith! So you did go and see her! What was she like?”
Hannasyde struck a match, and began to light his pipe. “She's a pretty little woman. Not very young, and distinctly common. What you might describe as a comfortable creature. Nice eyes, and a motherly smile.” He paused, and added between puffs. “She'd never heard of Gregory Matthews.”
Giles burst out laughing. “Oh, that's even better than I expected! My poor Hannasyde, what a blow for you!”
“I didn't take it like that,” said Hannasyde, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with one square thumb. “I thought it the most interesting circumstance that has yet come to light. You're not doing yourself justice, Mr Carrington. Don't you think it's a trifle odd that she should never have heard of a man who has her name and address written down in his diary?”
“Perhaps she knows him under an assumed name,” suggested Giles lightly. “Strong aroma of intrigue about this. Was there a liaison?”
“Oh no, she didn't even recognise his photograph,” said Hannasyde. “No doubt about that.”
“I admit it does seem a trifle queer,” said Giles. “Not altogether helpful, though. Where does the rope you mentioned come in?”
“She took me into her drawing-room,” said Hannasyde. “Cosy little room. Lots of cushions and knick-knacks. You know the style, I expect. There was a large portrait of a man bang in the middle of the mantelpiece. She told me it was her husband.”
“Perhaps it was,” said Giles charitably.
“I don't think so,” replied Hannasyde in his unemotional way. “It was a photograph of Mr Henry Lupton.”