The rest of Sunday passed uncomfortably. Randall left the Poplars soon after lunch, Mrs Matthews retired to rest, and her children, finding it impossible to occupy themselves indoors, went for a walk. Mrs Matthews remarked three times during the course of the evening that she felt quite lost without her sister-in-law, and when Guy, whose nerves were badly frayed, said caustically that he had been under the impression that life under the same roof with Harriet had become insupportable to her, she read him a lecture on the folly of exaggeration, and went to bed proclaiming herself not angry, but merely hurt. Stella then took her brother to task for having started a quarrel, and Guy, announcing that a little more from her (or anyone else) would be productive of the direst results, slammed out of the room. After that Stella too went to bed, and was troubled with bad dreams till morning.
Guy's praiseworthy resolve to go to work as usual had, he felt, to be abandoned. He came down to breakfast looking pale and heavy-eyed, drank a great deal of rather strong tea, and crumbled a piece of toast. His answers to Stella's remarks were monosyllabic, so she presently gave up trying to talk to him, finished her breakfast, and went off to interview the cook.
Mrs Beecher added her mite to the day's ills by greeting her with a month's notice. She and Beecher, she said, were very sorry, but they were feeling Unsettled.
“Well, I can't say I'm surprised,” replied Stella candidly.
“No, miss, and I'm sure it's not your fault. But one's got to think of oneself, when all's said and done, and right or wrong, we don't neither of us care to stay in a house where people drop down dead with poison six days out of the seven. “Tisn't natural.”
“No,” agreed Stella, too dispirited to point out a somewhat gross overstatement. “Is anything wanted in the town?”
Mrs Beecher thereupon produced a sheet of paper, which seemed to be entirely covered with writing, and said there were just one or two little things she needed.
Stella took the list, and went upstairs to consult her mother.
Mrs Matthews was just about to get up when her daughter entered the room. She, like Guy, looked rather heavy-eyed. She said that she had had a bad night, and upon being shown Mrs Beecher's shopping list, moaned faintly, and implored Stella not to worry her with that.
“There's worse than this,” said Stella, pocketing the list. “The Beechers have given notice. Leaving at the end of the month. Shall I call in at the Registry Office?”
Mrs Matthews said that it made her sad to think of all the people in the world who never gave a thought to anyone but themselves. However, after moralising in this strain for about five minutes, she remembered that she had always meant to get rid of the Beechers if Gregory had left the house to her, so really it was a blessing in disguise. Stella left her planning the new staff, and went off to do the shopping.
When she returned, nearly an hour later, she found Guy pacing up and down the hall. She commented unfavourably on this, but he turned a strained, pale face towards her, and said abruptly: “The police are here. She was poisoned.”
Stella put her parcels rather carefully down on the table, and replied after a slight pause: “Well, we practically knew that. What was it?”
“Nicotine. Same as uncle.”
She nodded. “Bound to be. Where are the police?”
“In the library, with mother. They wouldn't let me stay.”
“Have they found out what the poison was put into?”
“No. At least, I don't think so. They took away a lot of medicines and things from Aunt Harriet's room on Saturday. I suppose there hasn't been time to analyse them yet.”
Stella slowly pulled off her gloves, and smoothed out the fingers. “As long as they don't know how the stuff was given, there's no need for us to panic,” she said.
“No one's panicking,” he answered irritably. “But they'll go on motive. I tell you, I've thought it all out from A to Z. It was all right when uncle died. Anybody might have done it. But Aunt Harriet's death has narrowed the field down to two: myself and Mother. And the serious part of it is that we had motives for both murders. No one else had the slightest motive for murdering Aunt Harriet. It's no use blinking facts: one or other of us is going to be arrested—perhaps both of us.
“Don't be such an ass!” said Stella. “They can't prove anything against either of you—can they?”
Guy stopped pacing up and down, and came to a halt by the table, and stood facing his sister across it. “If you'll take the trouble to look at it fair and square you'll see they've got a nasty-looking case against us,” he said forcibly. “I was in a jam, and nothing would induce me to go to South America, so I poisoned uncle. Then I found that Aunt Harriet had left her money to me, and because I'm hard-up, I poisoned her, too.”
“No one would commit a murder for ,000,” said Stella.
“Wouldn't they just? Don't you believe it, my girl! People commit murders for much less.”
“At that rate, I might have murdered her because she made the house unbearable.”
“I don't think so. Of course, you might have murdered uncle because he threatened to ruin Fielding, but that isn't likely either, especially now it's all off between you. It's Mother the police suspect. She was dressing when they turned up, and I interviewed them first. The Superintendent asked me a whole lot of questions—damned awkward ones! Those blasted servants must have been talking. If you think it over, you can see for yourself how suspicious things must look. You remember the row Mother had with Uncle Gregory about me going to Brazil? Well, naturally, you do: it's the only real quarrel she ever had with him, and the whole household knows of it. But as I see it, it wouldn't matter so much about that if she hadn't so suddenly stopped having a row, and gone all honey-sweet to uncle.”
“Oh, that's just Mummy!” Stella said quickly. “Partly remembering she was a Christian, and partly hoping to coax uncle. Anyone who knows Mummy would recognise that act.”
“The point is the police don't know her. Why, good Lord, even I was surprised at her giving in so soon! And apparently she told the police she never took uncle seriously over the Brazilian business, and that's an obvious lie. I don't mind betting the servants are ready to swear she was more serious than she's ever been before. And you know what she is! She always believes things happened in exactly the way she wants to think they did, and consequently she comes out with the most idiotic fibs, which a babe in arms could see through.”
“Yes, but surely the police can't think that she'd murder Aunt Harriet simply for the sake of getting this house to herself?”
Guy brought his open palm down on the table. “Don't be such a thick-headed little fool! Don't you realise that uncle left a trust of ,000 a year for the upkeep of this place? Well, as things were, not only did Aunt Harriet run the show, but £2,000 was just about enough. With Aunt Harriet dead it's a good deal more than enough! Now do you see?”
“No, I don't,” said Stella stoutly. “The money wasn't going to be given to Aunt to spend as she liked.”
“Thanks, I know exactly how it was left. The trustees have to pay the rates and taxes, and that kind of thing, but the balance is paid into the Bank quarterly, and as long as it isn't overstepped, who's to say how it shall be spent?”
“Yes, I see that,” admitted Stella. “At the same time, it's a bit thick to think a thing like that about Mummy, whatever her faults may be.”
“It isn't what I think. It's what the police are going to think,” said Guy.
“Well, I should imagine they'd think twice before arresting her,” replied Stella. “If she'd wanted to murder Aunt Harriet she could surely have waited till uncle's death blew over. I mean, to do it now is absolutely asking for trouble!”
“No, I don't agree with you,” said Guy instantly. “If she did it, she probably thought it would be safer while the police were in a complete fog over uncle's death. Lots of people to suspect. If she'd waited she'd probably have been the only suspect. Something like that might have gone on in her mind.”
Stella gave a shiver. “It's too beastly. Shut up about it, for God's sake! What about that man Randall spoke of—I can't remember his name?”
“What man? Oh, that rubbish! I don't know: it sounded to me like Randall trying to be funny.”
“No, it wasn't. He meant it.”
“Well, if he did I can't see what it can have to do with Aunt Harriet's death.”
“No,” said Stella heavily. “Randall said that too.” She glanced towards the library-door. “How long has Mother been shut up with the police?”
“About twenty minutes.” Guy began to walk up and down again. “I can't make Mother out!” he said. “Generally she doesn't give away much. She didn't when uncle died. But this time she seems—badly rattled.”
“It's enough to rattle anybody.”
“Well, I wish to God she'd stop telling everybody how much she's going to miss Aunt, and how heartbroken she is!” said Guy explosively. “It rings so dam' false!”
Stella considered this. “Do you know, I'm not so sure of that? It's quite possible she does miss her.”
Guy stared at her. “They fought like cats!”
“Yes, I know, but—but they were awfully used to each other, and they often joined forces against uncle, or Aunt Gertrude, and if ever one of them was ill the other always rallied round at once.”
“Better if they hadn't!” Guy said significantly. “Oh, hell, why did Mother give Aunt a medicine of her own instead of sending for the doctor? And what possessed her to forbid anyone to go into Aunt's room? The servants all say that she impressed it on them that they weren't to disturb Aunt, and it came out today that she even forbade Mary to sweep the landing that morning.”
“Anyone would have done the same,” insisted Stella. “Aunt said she was sleepy, so naturally Mummy wouldn't let Mary fidget about outside her room.”
Guy started to reply, but broke off as the library-door was opened, and looked quickly round. Mrs Matthews stood holding the door-handle, and said in a faint voice: “Stella, I want you.”
Both her children at once went towards her. Stella slipped a sustaining arm round her waist, and said: “It's all right, Mummy; I'm here. What is it?”
Mrs Matthews led her into the library. “Darling child, I want you to think back carefully, and tell the Superintendent. Do you remember when poor Aunt Harriet was taken ill how you and I discussed whether we should send for Dr Fielding or not?”
“Yes, of course,” responded Stella, whose only recollection was of her mother stating that a doctor was quite unnecessary. She looked across the room to where Hannasyde stood, and met his searching gaze unflinchingly. “I didn't think it was in the least called-for.”
Hannasyde did not reply to her, but instead addressed her mother. “Mrs Matthews, this is quite useless. The fact remains that you did not send for a doctor, though it must surely have been obvious to a woman of your experience that your sister-in-law was very unwell indeed.”
Stella felt her mother's fingers tighten unconsciously on her own arm. “But it was not obvious!” Mrs Matthews said, in a low, unsteady voice. “I knew she felt sick, and I saw that she was a bad colour, but I put that down to acute indigestion. She never had what I call a really healthy colour, never!”
“Mrs Matthews, your sister-in-law must have felt other symptoms than these. Did she not complain to you of cramp, or a creeping in her arms, or even of extreme cold in her feet and hands?”
“I can't remember her mentioning anything beyond sickness and giddiness. She may have said she felt chilly, but I should expect that. I gave her a hot-water bottle.”
“And yet,” said Hannasyde, “when Miss Matthews passed the butler in the hall, on her way up to her room, he was struck by her appearance, and thought that she seemed to be out of breath, as though she had been running.”
“So he says!” Guy interpolated scornfully. “Servants will make up any tale to create a sensation!”
“If he made it up, Mr Matthews, it is an odd coincidence that the shortness of breath which he described should be one of the symptoms of nicotine poisoning. Did you not notice it, Mrs Matthews?”
“If I did I should only have thought it due to faintness,” replied Mrs Matthews.
“Your sister-in-law did not complain to you of feeling very ill?”
Mrs Matthews gave a little tinkling laugh. “Poor Harriet was never one to minimise her own ailments,” she said. “I daresay that she may have said that she felt very bad, but I was so accustomed to her habit of exaggerating the least disorder, that I am afraid I didn't set a great deal of store by what she said. It seemed obvious to me that her stomach was thoroughly upset, and I did exactly what I should have done for one of my own children.”
The Superintendent's calm voice, with its undercurrent of implacability, broke in on this. “Yet Mrs Beecher, who had known Miss Matthews for seven and a half years, states that she was never one to give way easily.”
Mrs Matthews' eyes snapped. “Mrs Beecher knows nothing about it! It was hardly to be expected that my sister-in-law would confide in the cook. Stella, you know what an absurd fuss your aunt used to make if she had as much as a cold in her head, don't you?”
“Mrs Matthews, I am sure your daughter will corroborate any statement you ask her to, but you should realise that her testimony when prompted in that manner, is not likely to weigh with me.”
“It comes to this, Superintendent: you prefer to believe the servants' words sooner than mine!” said Mrs Matthews.
“It comes to this, Mrs Matthews: you have not been frank with me; you are still not being frank. It is only fair to tell you that I am not satisfied with your evidence. I must warn you that your continued refusal to remember circumstances which I am convinced cannot have slipped your memory may have very serious consequences.”
Guy, who had been standing quite still, with his back to the door, suddenly walked forward into the middle of the room, and said: “Stella, let mother sit down. Look here, Superintendent, my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with either of these murders, and I'm not going to stand by and see her bullied by you, or anyone else! What the Beechers say is utterly beside the point. They neither of them like my mother, and they're under notice to leave. My aunt didn't complain of any of the things you've mentioned to my sister and me at breakfast, and we neither of us thought that she looked particularly ill.”
“That is quite possible,” said Hannasyde. “Some little time elapsed between your seeing your aunt at breakfast and the butler's meeting her in the hall. I appreciate your feelings in the matter, Mr Matthews, but you are doing no good by this sort of interruption.”
“There's one thing you seem to be leaving out of account,” said Guy, disregarding this warning. “Both my sister and I can certify that my aunt complained of feeling ill at breakfast, before ever she had seen my mother. If you imagine there was nicotine in the medicine my mother gave her, I would remind you that it was given at least an hour after she began to feel ill—and, since you set so much store by what Beecher says—after he had met her in the hall, and been struck by her appearance.”
“I am quite aware of that, Mr Matthews.”
“It is utterly absurd,” said Mrs Matthews, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, “but the Superintendent seems to think that I could have put that dreadful poison into your aunt's early-morning teapot.” She gave a wan smile, and added: “If it were not such a painful thought, so wounding to one's feeling, I could laugh at it! I haven't the least idea what was done with the early tea-trays, and I didn't wake until the housemaid came into my room, so how I could have tampered with your aunt's teapot, I entirely fail to see.”
“You say that you only awoke when the maid came into your room, Mrs Matthews, but she states that you were already awake when she went in. Are you quite sure that you are telling me the truth?”
“I suppose,” said Mrs Matthews tragically, “that you are at liberty to insult me as much as you choose. It only remains for you to arrest me. Indeed, I am astonished that you haven't done so already.”
Hannasyde did not answer immediately, and Guy, who at the mention of the early tea had shot one swift, horrified look at his sister, now removed his hand from the back of his mother's chair, and said jerkily: “Nobody's going to arrest you, mother, I can assure you. You're very clever, Superintendent, but it was I who poisoned my aunt, not my mother.”
“Guy, you fool!” Stella cried.
He paid no attention to her, but looked squarely at Hannasyde. Mrs Matthews said tensely: “That's not true! Don't listen to him! I know it's not true!”
Hannasyde met Guy's bright, defiant eyes with an enigmatical look in his own. “How did you poison your aunt, Mr Matthews?”
“In her tea,” replied Guy. “The tea she had at breakfast. I was down first. I knew my sister always has coffee. When I told you I drank tea that day, I lied. I didn't. I drank coffee.”
“No, Guy, no!” said his mother. “You don't know what you're saying! Superintendent, my son is only trying to shield me! There's not a word of truth in what he says! You can see for yourself —”
“Did you also poison your uncle, Mr Matthews?” inquired Hannasyde.
“Yes, in the whiskey-and-soda,” replied Guy recklessly.
“Stop being theatrical!” Stella said angrily. “What good do you think you're doing, making dramatic gestures? You did not drink coffee that morning, or any other morning! You don't like coffee! You're behaving like someone in a penny novelette!”
Guy paid no heed to this, but continued to address the Superintendent. “Well, have you got a warrant for my arrest?” he demanded.
“No, I'm afraid I haven't,” replied Hannasyde.
“Then you'd better go and apply for one!” said Guy.
“When I am satisfied that I have sufficient grounds for doing so, I will,” promised Hannasyde.
“I don't know what more you want!” said Guy, in a somewhat flattened voice.
Sergeant Hemingway came into the room at that moment, and handed his superior a sealed envelope.
“Excuse me, please,” Hannasyde said formally, and tore open the envelope, and spread open the single sheet it contained. He ran his eye down the typewritten lines, and then looked up, and at Guy, who said at once: “You're wasting your time trying to badger my mother. I've told you what happened. Now get on with it, and arrest me!”
“I am sorry, Mr Matthews, but you have not shown me sufficient grounds for applying for a warrant for your arrest. You have stated that you put the poison in your aunt's tea, but Miss Matthews did not swallow the nicotine which killed her.”
These words produced a sudden, surprised silence. Guy broke it. “What do you mean, she didn't swallow it? She must have swallowed it!”
“Yes, I thought you didn't know quite as much about it as you pretended, Mr Matthews,” said Hannasyde. “The nicotine did not pass through the stomach. It was absorbed through the tissues of the mouth.” He held up the paper in his hand. “This is the analyst's report, which I've been waiting for. The medium through which your aunt was poisoned was a tube of toothpaste.”
“A-tube-of-toothpaste?” Guy repeated, blankly, and then was silent.
Hannasyde folded the report again, and put it away in his pocketbook. The deliberation of his movements seemed to fascinate Stella; her eyes followed them in a kind of numb bewilderment while a jumble of thoughts chased one another through her brain. These found expression presently in one sentence, blurted out unwarily. “Then anyone might have done it!”
“I don't think so, Miss Matthews.”
Mrs Matthews said with something of her usual smoothness: “Stella darling, just sit down and be quiet. You don't know anything about this, my dear child, and you must not keep on interrupting.” She turned towards Hannasyde, and said graciously: “You see now how absurd your suspicions were, Superintendent. We won't say any more about it, however. Naturally I understand that your duty compels you to suspect everybody. But this is most amazing news! A tube of toothpaste! You mean, I suppose, that the poison was injected into it. A hypodermic syringe, no doubt. I don't think that anyone in this house owns such a thing. It is a very, very terrible thought that my poor sister-in-law should have —”
Guy made an impatient gesture, as though to silence her. “How was it done?” he asked. “Are you at liberty to tell us that?”
“Certainly,” said Hannasyde. “The poison was in all probability injected, as your mother seems to have realised, by means of a hypodermic syringe, inserted into the bottom end of the tube, and driven up a little way through the paste. The paste at the bottom of the tube is untainted, and it is obvious that the paste at the top end must also have been free from poison.”
Guy said softly: “By Jove, that's clever! It might have been done at any time, then. Aunt Harriet has been working her way down the tube for days, till at last she reached the poison! Gosh!”
“It's awful!” Stella said. “It's devilish!”
“One can only be thankful poor Harriet knew nothing about it,” remarked Mrs Matthews in a saintly voice.
“For God's sake don't talk as though she were a sheep being driven to the slaughter-house!” exclaimed Stella, quite pale with disgust.
“Stella dear, you forget yourself,” said Mrs Matthews repressively. She transferred her attention to the Superintendent. “One is terribly shocked, of course, but what my son says is right. This appalling thing may have been done at any time.”
“But not, Mrs Matthews, by any person,” replied Hannasyde.
She spread out her hands. “Anyone who was familiar with this house could have found the opportunity to do it, Superintendent.”
“Possibly,” agreed Hannasyde. “But few people can have had any motive for killing Miss Matthews.”
Guy muttered: “O God, we're just where we were before!”
“Ah, Superintendent,” said Mrs Matthews, sadly shaking her head. “What, after all, do we know of each other's lives? Even I who was so close to my poor sister-in-law would hesitate to say that she had no enemies of whom I knew nothing. She was a strange, eccentric woman! I have sometimes wondered whether there might not have been something in the past to account for many of her oddities. So often an apparently warped nature —”
“If you, who were so close to her, do not know of anything sinister in her past, I think we may assume that there was nothing,” interrupted Hannasyde, with an inflection of contempt in his voice. “The discovery of the medium through which the poison was administered has not enlarged the field of suspects, as a moment's reflection will, I think, show you.”
Stella grasped a chairback, and said desperately: “But not one of us three had a motive for killing Aunt Harriet! Not a real motive! This is like a nightmare! Things don't happen like this! Leave me alone, mother: I won't be quiet!” She shook off her mother's hand, laid warningly on her arm, and said, trembling: “I don't pretend to know who did it. Perhaps she knew something that—that made her dangerous. Supposing it were something about that man you're looking for—the one who disappeared?”
“Well?” said Hannasyde.
“Oh, I don't know!” she said wretchedly. “How can I know? But why don't you try and find out? My cousin told us about that man, and how you believe he had something to do with my uncle's death. Perhaps Aunt knew something about him. After all, we haven't always lived here; we don't know what may have happened in the past. My mother is quite right! You didn't know my uncle, or how Aunt Harriet hated him. Perhaps she was in a plot to murder him, and then—oh, I know this sounds far-fetched, but it isn't as far-fetched as thinking that my mother could murder aunt in that awful, coldblooded way just to get this house to herself!” Her voice broke, but she controlled it and added: “I had as strong a motive as my mother!”
“So had I,” said Guy. “A much stronger one than either of yours, too.”
“No, that isn't true,” Stella answered. “You were the only one who really liked Aunt Harriet! You always stood up for her when Mummy and I ran her down. And she didn't interfere with you. She was awfully fond of you!”
“So much so that she left me her money. Don't forget that bit,” interrupted Guy.
“You didn't want her money! Superintendent, it's all rubbish about my aunt's money! She only had quite a little, and now that Uncle Gregory's dead my brother can do what he likes with his own capital!” She stopped short, aware of the implication of her own words, and grew whiter than ever. “No. I don't mean—I didn't —”
The door opened. “What a charming reunion!” remarked a mellifluous voice. “I'm so glad. I'm not too late to join in. I should not have liked to have missed the dear Superintendent.”
“Oh, Randall!” gasped Stella, and released the chairback, and fled towards him, and clung to his arm.
He looked down at her with a curious lift to his brows. Guy, staring in astonishment at his sister's behaviour, saw a gleam in the blue eyes, hard to interpret.
Randall laid his hand on Stella's, but only to remove it from his sleeve. “My precious, you really must have some regard for my clothes,” he said with gentle reproach. “Much as I love you, I cannot permit you to maul this particular coat.” He drew her hand through his arm, and walked forward with her, his fingers still lightly clasping hers. “Now what has been happening to upset my little cousin Stella?” he inquired of the room at large. “Have you been accusing her of murdering my late aunt, Superintendent?”
“No,” said Hannasyde, “I have not.”
“You had better tell me all about it,” said Randall amiably. “I can see that you are all of you—ah, pregnant with news.”
“Really, Randall!” protested Mrs Matthews.
“They've found out what the poison was put into,” said Guy.
“Have they indeed? Well, that's very nice,” said Randall. “And what was it put into?”
“A tube of toothpaste,” answered Guy.
Randall had led Stella to a chair, and seemed to be more interested in seeing her comfortably settled into it than in Guy's disclosure. It was just a moment before he spoke, and then he merely said: “Really? Some ingenious brain at work, apparently.”
“That's exactly what I was thinking,” said Guy. “Damned ingenious!”
Randall turned away from Stella, and regarded Guy with veiled amusement. “Well, don't stop,” he said encouragingly. “What else were you thinking?”
“I don't know that I was thinking of anything else,” said Guy slowly.
“Physical disability, or cousinly forbearance?” inquired Randall, taking a cigarette out of his case and setting it between his lips.
“Neither. But Stella was saying just as you came in that perhaps Aunt Harriet was mixed up in some way with that missing fellow you told us about. Perhaps she knew too much, and that was why she was poisoned.”
Randall lit his cigarette. “On no account miss tomorrow's instalment of this thrilling story,” he murmured. “What do you call it, sweetheart? The Hand of Death? I can see that the Superintendent is positively spellbound. And so Aunt Harriet carried her secret with her to the grave! Well, well!”
“It isn't funny!” snapped Guy.
“Not in the least; it's maudlin,” said Randall crushingly.
“I don't see why there shouldn't be something in it. After all —”
Randall moaned, and covered his eyes with his hand. “My poor little cousin, have you no sense of the ludicrous?”
“Randall, there might have been something we didn't know about,” Stella said in a low voice.
He glanced down at her. “In Aunt Harriet's life? Pull yourself together, darling.”
It was at this moment that Mrs Lupton sailed into the room, swept a look round, and said in a portentous voice: “I thought as much!”
“That's very interesting,” said Randall, turning towards her immediately. “As much as what?”
“I have not come here to bandy words with you, Randall, but to find out what has been going on in this house. From the presence of these two gentlemen I deduce that my unfortunate sister, incredible as it may seem, was indeed poisoned. I demand to be told exactly what has happened!”
“Well, at the moment,” said Randall, “we are discussing an entrancing theory that your unfortunate sister was murdered because she was in possession of some hideous secret.”
Mrs Lupton cast a withering glance upon him. “Harriet was never able to keep a secret in her life,” she said. “I do not know who was responsible for this piece of nonsense, but I may say that I strongly object to it.” She glared at Hannasyde. “Have you found out how my sister was poisoned, or are you going to tell me that you are still in the dark?”
“Your sister was poisoned through the medium of a tube of toothpaste,” answered Hannasyde, who had drawn a little way back from the group, and had been silently watching and listening.
Mrs Lupton repeated: “A tube of toothpaste? I never heard of such a thing!”
“What a valuable contribution to our symposium!” remarked Randall.
“Who did it?” demanded Mrs Lupton sternly. “That is what I wish to know! That is what has got to be found out! Good heavens, do you realise that not one but two murders have been committed, and not one thing has been done about it?”
“My dear aunt, "them," not "it," ” corrected Randall in a pained voice.
“I am forced to look the facts in the face,” continued Mrs Lupton, disregarding this interruption, “and disagreeable though it may be, I am not one to shirk the truth. My brother and my sister have been murdered in cold blood, and I know of only one person who could have done it, or who had a motive for doing it!”
Mrs Matthews rose to her feet. “If you mean me, Gertrude, pray do not hesitate to say so!” she begged. “I am becoming quite accustomed to having the most heartless and wicked accusations made against me! But I should very much like to know how I am supposed to have got hold of any nicotine!”
“We all know how morbidly interested you are in anything to do with illness or medicine,” returned Mrs Lupton. “No doubt you could have found out, had you wanted to, where to obtain nicotine.”
Stella sat up suddenly. “You don't buy nicotine,” she said. “You extract it from tobacco. Deryk Fielding told me so. Mother wouldn't have known how to do that.”
“If it comes to that,” said Guy, “who would know, except Fielding himself?” He looked quickly up, and across the room at his cousin, his eyes narrow all at once. “Or—you, Randall!”
Randall was unperturbed by this attack. He merely tipped the ash off the end of his cigarette, and said: “Somehow I thought it wouldn't be long before I was identified with the mysterious killer of Stella's little bedtime story.”
Mrs Lupton fixed him with a cold, appraising stare. “Yes,” she said slowly, “that is perfectly true, though what reason you could have had for poisoning your Aunt Harriet I fail to see. But perhaps the Superintendent is not aware that you were training to be a doctor when your father died?”
“Yes, Mrs Lupton, I am aware of that,” Hannasyde replied.
“I do not say that it has necessarily any bearing on this case,” said Mrs Lupton fairly. “But the fact remains that you have a certain medical knowledge. You had also the strongest motive of anyone for murdering your uncle Gregory.”
Stella said, grasping the arms of her chair: “No! No, he hasn't. He doesn't want uncle's money. He told me himself he was going to get rid of it.”
An astonished silence greeted her words. Hannasyde, closely watching Randall, saw a flicker of annoyance in his face, and caught the gleam of warning in the look he flashed at Stella.
Guy broke the silence. “You—don't—want—uncle's—money?” he repeated. “What rot! I never heard such a tale!”
He burst out laughing, but Hannasyde's voice cut through his laughter. “That is very interesting, Mr Matthews. May I know why you don't want your inheritance?”
“It's as plain as a pikestaff!” said Guy scornfully. “He said it so that no one should suspect him of having poisoned uncle.”
“Thank you,” said Hannasyde. “But I spoke to your cousin, Mr Matthews, not to you.”
Randall was frowningly regarding the tip of his cigarette. He raised his eyes when Hannasyde spoke, and answered pensively: “Well, do you know, I like to shock my family now and then, my dear Superintendent.”
“You did not by any chance mean what you said to Miss Stella Matthews?”
Randall's lip curled sardonically. “Is it possible that anyone could wish to be rid of a large fortune?” he said mockingly. “The answer is to be read in my relatives' expressive countenances. They are more profoundly shocked than if it had been proved to them that I murdered my uncle and my aunt.” He moved towards the table and put his cigarette out in the ashtray that stood on it. “However, what I mean to do with my inheritance is not in the least relevant to the matter on hand. You mustn't think that I don't know how much you would like my deplorable relatives to continue their artless and revealing discussions, but—I think not, Superintendent: I think not! Let us stick to my aunt's death, shall we? You do not really believe that I had any hand in that—ah, setting aside my cousin Stella's engaging theory, of course. You suspect, and so does my dear Aunt Gertrude, that my clever Aunt Zoë is the guilty party. I don't blame you in the least. I will even go so far as to say that I don't blame my dear Aunt Gertrude either. With her own fair hands my clever aunt built up the case against herself, and I must say it does her credit. It worries you, doesn't it, Superintendent? My Aunt Harriet's death has upset a cherished theory of your own; in fact, it is quite out of order.”
He paused, but Hannasyde only said: “Go on, Mr Matthews.”
“It worried me too,” Randall said. “But I have slightly the advantage of you. I know more about the eccentricities of my family. I admit, I was quite at sea until I heard how the poison had been administered. But an idea has occurred to me.” He looked round the room. “Do any of you know what became of Uncle Gregory's tube of toothpaste?” he inquired.
No one answered for a moment; blank faces stared at him. Then Stella's chair rasped on the polished floor as she suddenly sprang up.
“Randall!” she gasped. “You're perfectly right! Aunt Harriet took it!”
“I thought as much,” said Randall.
Mrs Matthews said in a stupefied way: “Harriet took Gregory's toothpaste? To use? Well, really! How very distasteful!”
“Are you sure of this, Miss Matthews?” Hannasyde asked.
“Yes. Oh, perfectly sure! I'd forgotten all about it until my cousin asked that question. Then I remembered at once. It was the very day we found uncle's body. My aunt had his room turned out, and I met her on the landing, carrying all sorts of oddments she'd collected. I can't remember what they were—I know she had uncle's faceflannel, which she said would do for a cleaning rag, and I distinctly remember her showing me a tube of toothpaste. It was half-used, and she said she saw no reason to waste it, and was going to use it herself when she'd finished her own.”
Sergeant Hemingway, who had been till now a silent but an intensely interested auditor, said: “That accounts for the empty tube we found, Superintendent. She'd only just come to the end of it. It puzzled me a bit, that empty one being left on the wash-stand when it looked as though she'd been using the other for several days.”
Hannasyde nodded. Guy blurted out: “Then—then Aunt Harriet's death was a pure accident?”
Mrs Lupton drew a deep breath. “If this story is true, I can only say that it is a judgment on Harriet!” she announced. “I warned her that her exaggerated economies would come to no good. She would not listen to me, and here is the result! It puts me out of all patience. I am utterly disgusted!”
“Gertrude dear, remember that you are speaking of the dead,” said Mrs Matthews reproachfully.
Hannasyde was still looking at Stella. “Miss Matthews, can you remember what time it was when you met your aunt on the landing?”
Stella thought for a minute. “Well, I don't think I can, quite. I know it was before lunch. Somewhere about twelve—but I wouldn't swear to it. It might have been later.”
“Not earlier?”
“No, I'm sure it wasn't earlier.”
“Until your aunt went to turn it out, was your uncle's bathroom locked?”
She shook her head. “Oh no! His bedroom wasn't either.”
“Could anyone have gone into the bathroom without being seen, do you think?”
“Yes, easily, I should imagine. Why should—oh! To take that tube away, and burn it!” She looked round, puzzled. “But no one did. Then—then it looks as though it wasn't anyone living in the house, doesn't it?”
“We don't know that Fielding didn't try,” said Guy. “But he didn't get the chance, because Beecher went up to uncle's room with him.”
“I'm sure it wasn't Deryk,” answered Stella shortly.
“Well, what about Randall?” said Guy. “Just as a matter of interest, dear cousin Randall, what were you doing on the landing that day I found you talking to Stella at the top of the stairs?”
“Just talking to Stella at the top of the stairs, dear cousin Guy,” replied Randall blandly.
“Stella, what had he been up to?”
Stella glanced fleetingly at Randall, and saw that he was watching her with a faint smile. “I don't know,” she said. “You had better ask him. Anyway, Randall hadn't been near the house for days” — She stopped, and her eyes widened.
“Exactly!” said Guy triumphantly. “Randall hadn't been near the house for days, and therefore Randall never even came under suspicion. But the poison could have been put into the toothpaste at any time, and none of Randall's perfect alibis exist any longer. He hasn't got an alibi!”