“Hell!” said Guy audibly.
There entered a sleek and beautiful young man who paused just inside the door, and glanced round at his assembled relatives with a bland and faintly mocking smile. He was dressed with the most finicking care, and nothing could have been more symphonic than the blend of his shirt with his silk socks and his expensive tie. His figure was extremely elegant; his hands were well-manicured; his jet-black hair was brushed into waves undisturbed by the slightest disorder; and his teeth were so gleamingly white and regular that they might have served for an advertisement for somebody's toothpaste. His mouth was a little too thin-lipped to be perfect, and curled too sarcastically to be pleasant, but his eyes, set under straight brows and fringed by long lashes, were remarkable for their colour and brilliance. They were of a startling and deep blue, very hard, generally half-hidden by drooping lids, and occasionally disconcerting in their sudden alertness. As he looked from one to the other of his relations they were smiling, and quite limpid.
“How lovely for me!” he said in a voice of honeyed sweetness. “Not only my dear Aunt Gertrude, but my charming cousin Janet as well!” He walked forward, graceful and rather feline, and bent to kiss his aunt's cheek. “My dear aunt! You look so nice in that hat.”
“Do you think so?” said Mrs Lupton unresponsively.
“I've thought so for years,” he said gently, and passed on to Miss Matthews. “You must none of you bother to say how pleased you are to see me,” he said. “I can read it in all your expressive faces.” He looked critically at Stella, and strolled across the room towards her. “Yes, darling, that is quite a nice frock, but the handkerchief is not only the wrong shade of grey, but quite damnably tied. Let me show you, my sweet.”
Stella pushed his hand away. “No, thanks!”
He was still smiling. “How you hate me, don't you?” he murmured. “And Guy? How are you, little cousin?”
Guy, who did not relish this form of address, glowered at him.
Mrs Lupton, still rigid with wrath at the edged compliment paid her, said sharply: “I presume you have heard the news of your uncle's death?”
“Oh yes!” said Randall. “You will notice that I am wearing an armband. I always like to observe the conventions. And which of you,” he inquired, looking amiably round, “is responsible for dear uncle's death? Or don't you know?”
This airy question produced a feeling of tension, which was possibly Randall's object. Mrs Lupton said: “That is not amusing nor is this a time for jokes in bad taste.”
Randall opened his eyes at her. “Dear aunt, did you think I was joking?”
“If uncle was poisoned, which I don't believe he was for an instant,” said Stella, “you had a bigger motive for killing him than anyone else!”
Randall took a cigarette out of his thin gold case, and lit it in a leisurely way. “True, my pet, very true, but you mustn't forget that I was several miles distant when he died. And while I am on the subject may I ask who was responsible for starting this canard that uncle was poisoned?”
“I was responsible for the post-mortem,” replied Mrs Lupton.
“Do you know, I thought perhaps you might be?” said Randall.
“I am by no means satisfied that your uncle died a natural death. I accuse no one; I make no insinuations; but I shall be surprised if my suspicions are not found to be correct.”
“I know you like plain-speaking, my beloved aunt,” said Randall, “so you will not mind my telling you that I find your behaviour extremely officious.”
“Indeed?”
“And ill judged,” said Randall pensively.
“I am not concern—”
“Also more than a little stupid. But that was to be expected.”
“It may interest you to know—”
“Experience, my dear aunt, leads me to reply with confidence that whatever it is you have to say is not in the least likely to interest me.”
While Mrs Lupton fought for words Stella said curiously: “Then you don't think uncle can really have been poisoned, Randall?”
“I haven't the slightest idea,” replied Randall. “The question interests me almost as little as Aunt Gertrude's remarks.”
“Of course, I see what you mean,” said Janet. “But if he was poisoned I'm sure we all want it cleared up.”
“Are you, darling?” said Randall solicitously.
“Well—well, you wouldn't want a thing like that to go unpunished, would you?” said Janet.
“If there's any doubt naturally we want it cleared up!” said Guy, looking defiantly at Mrs Lupton.
“That was not the tone you used this morning,” she commented dryly.
“You must not pay too much attention to Guy, Aunt Gertrude,” said Randall. “He is only trying to impress you.”
“Damn you, are you hinting that I've any reason for wanting it hushed up?” demanded Guy angrily.
“Shut up! he's only trying to get a rise out of you,” said Stella. She met Randall's ironic gaze, and said bluntly:
“Why are you so against a post-mortem?”
“Oh, I'm not!” Randall assured her. “I was merely looking at it from your point of view.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, my sweet, yours, and Guy's, and Aunt Harriet's, and even my clever Aunt Zoë's. You ought all of you to be very thankful for uncle's timely decease. I do not like to see you looking a gift horse in the mouth. Could you not have induced your obliging medical friend to have signed the death certificate, Stella darling?”
She flushed. “Dr Fielding was perfectly ready to sign the certificate without any persuasion from me. None of us wanted to start a scandal except Aunt Gertrude.”
“Of course we didn't,” corroborated Guy. “In fact, I said everything I could to stop it.”
“Then do not assume a pious attitude now, little cousin,” said Randall. “Believe me, it is nauseating.”
Miss Matthews, who had been opening and shutting her mouth in the manner of one awaiting an opportunity to enter into the conversation, suddenly exclaimed: “How dare you say that I wanted Gregory to die? I never even thought of such a thing! I may not have been very fond of him, but—” She broke off as Randall's smile grew, and said, trembling: “You are insufferable! just like your father!”
“My dear aunt,” said Randall, “you were not in the least fond of uncle. Nor was Stella, nor was Guy, nor, even, was my clever Aunt Zoë.”
“And nor were you!” flashed Stella.
“And nor was I,” agreed Randall suavely. “In fact, I can think of no one, with the possible exception of Aunt Gertrude, who was fond of him. Were you fond of him, aunt, or was it a mere question of affinity?”
“I'm sure I was very fond of poor Uncle Gregory,” said Janet unwisely.
“How very affecting!” said Randall. “But perhaps you are also sure that you are very fond of me too?”
“I always try to see the best in people,” said Janet with a bright smile. “And I'm sure you don't mean half the things you say.”
Randall looked at her with acute dislike. “I congratulate you, Janet,” he said. “Your cousins have been trying to silence me for years, but you have done it with one utterly fatuous remark.”
“May I ask, Randall, whether you came here with any other intention than of being offensive to my daughter?” asked Mrs Lupton.
“Why, certainly,” he answered, “I came to satisfy my not unnatural curiosity.”
“You mean your uncle's death?”
“I mean nothing of the sort,” said Randall. “I was already informed of that, and also of the impending post-mortem, by uncle's solicitor. I was curious to know how you were all behaving in this time of trial, and why it had not occurred to any of you to notify me of uncle's death.”
He looked round inquiringly as he spoke, and Guy immediately said: “Because we didn't want you nosing about and creating unpleasantness!”
“Oh, I do hope I haven't done that?” said Randall in a voice of gentle concern.
“As a matter of fact,” stated Mrs Lupton fairly, “I was telling your Aunt Harriet that you ought to be informed when you arrived. Not that I consider you have any cause for complaint. You are not more nearly concerned than Gregory's sisters. Please do not imagine that you need give yourself airs just because you happen now to be the head of the family! There will be time enough for that when we have heard your uncle's Will read. Which reminds me, Harriet, that I must arrange with Mr Carrington when it will be convenient to him to come down here. In the ordinary course of events I suppose he would come immediately after the funeral, but in this case I am of the opinion that the sooner he comes the better.”
“I am glad of that,” said Randall. “He is coming on the day after tomorrow.”
Mrs Lupton eyed him with something approaching loathing. “Do I understand that you took it upon yourself to make this arrangement without a word to anyone?”
“Yes,” said Randall.
At this moment a not unwelcome interruption occurred. Mrs Matthews came into the room. She extended a gloved hand towards Randall, and said: “I saw your car, and so guessed you were here. Janet, too! Quite a little family party, I see. I wonder if you thought to order any fresh cake, Harriet dear? I seem to remember that there was not a great deal yesterday. But I'm sure you did.” She dropped her hand on to her sister-in-law's shoulder for a moment, and pressed it. “Poor Harriet! Such a sad, sad day. And for me too.”
“I understood that you had been shopping in town,” said Mrs Lupton.
Mrs Matthews gave her a look of pained reproach. “I have been buying mourning, Gertrude, if you can call that shopping.”
“I do not know what else one can call it,” retorted Mrs Lupton.
Randall handed Mrs Matthews to a chair. “How tired you must be!” he said. “I find there is nothing so fatiguing as choosing clothes.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Matthews, sinking into the chair, and beginning to draw off her gloves, “it was not so much choosing, as taking anything that was suitable. One doesn't care what one wears at such a time.”
“You have a beautiful nature, dear Aunt Zoë. But I feel sure that exquisite taste cannot have erred, shattered though we know you to be.”
Mrs Matthews fixed her soulful eyes on his face, and replied gravely: “Not shattered, Randall, but in a mood of—how shall I express it?—melancholy, perhaps, and yet not quite that. Gregory has been much in my thoughts.”
“Let me beg of you, Zoë, not to make yourself ridiculous by talking in that affected way!” said Mrs Lupton roundly. “You will find it very hard to convince me for one that Gregory has been in your thoughts, as you call it, for as much as ten seconds.”
“And I'm sure I don't know why he should be!” added Miss Matthews, a good deal annoyed. “I lived with Gregory all my life, and what is more he was my brother, and if he was in anyone's thoughts it was in mine, which indeed he was, for I have been sorting all his clothes, wondering whether we should not send most of them to a sale. Though there is an old coat which might very well be given to the gardener, and no doubt Guy would be glad of the new waterproof.”
“My thoughts were rather different, dear,” said Mrs Matthews. “I was in Knightsbridge, and found time to slip into the Oratory for a few moments. The peace of it! There was something in the whole atmosphere of the place which I can hardly describe, but which seemed to me just right, somehow.”
“It must have been the incense,” said Miss Matthews doubtfully. “Not that I care for it myself, or for joss-sticks either, though my mother used to be very fond of burning them in the drawing-room, I remember. Though why you should go into a Roman Catholic Church I can't imagine.”
“Nor anyone else,” said Mrs Lupton.
Janet said large-mindedly: “I think I can understand what you mean, Aunt Zoë. There's something about those places, though one can't approve of Roman Catholics, of course, but I can quite imagine how you felt.”
“No, dear, you are too young to understand, mercifully for yourself,” said Mrs Matthews, disdaining this wellmeant support. “You do not know anything of the dark side of life yet, and pray God you never may!”
“Oh, mother!” groaned Guy, writhing in acute discomfort.
“If all this grossly exaggerated talk refers to Gregory's death I can only say that I never listened to such nonsense in my life!” declared Mrs Lupton.
Randall lifted one long, slender finger. “Hush, aunt! Aunt Zoë is remembering that she is a widow.”
“Damn you!” muttered Stella, just behind him.
“Yes, Randall, I am remembering it,” said Mrs Matthews. “Now that Gregory has passed on I realise that I am indeed alone in the world.”
Randall made a gesture towards his scowling cousins. “Ah, but, aunt, you forget your two inestimable Blessings!” He glanced down into Stella's wrathful eyes, and said softly: “That will teach you to say damn you to me, my sweet, won't it?”
Under cover of Mrs Lupton's and Miss Matthews' voices, both uplifted in indignant speech, Stella said: “You're a rotten cad!”
He laughed. “Temper, Stella, temper!”
“I wish to God you'd get out, and stay out!”
“Think how dull you'd be without me,” he said, turning away. “Dear, dear, surely my beloved aunts are not quarrelling?”
The dispute ended abruptly. “Do you mean to stay to tea, Randall?” snapped Miss Matthews.
“No, Stella has expressed a wish that I should get out and stay out,” replied Randall, quite without rancour.
“Stella, dear! I'm sure you didn't mean that,” Mrs Matthews said.
“What a thing it is to be head of the family!” murmured Randall. “I am becoming popular.” With which parting shot he blew a kiss to the assembled company, and walked out of the room.
He left behind him a feeling of tension which the succeeding days did nothing to allay. The family was uneasy, and the intelligence, conveyed to Stella by Dr Fielding, that the organs of Gregory Matthews' body had been sent to the Home Office for analysis was not reassuring. The suspense set everyone's nerves on edge, and the visit of Mr Giles Carrington, of the firm of Carrington, Radclyffe, and Carrington, to read the Will on Friday had the effect of causing a great deal of pent-up emotion to explode.
Everyone had nursed expectations; everyone, except Randall, was disappointed. Mrs Lupton was left a thousand pounds only, and an oil painting of her brother which she neither liked nor had room for on her already overcrowded walls, and was inclined to regard it as an added injury that she was referred to in the Will as Gregory's beloved sister Gertrude. Neither of her daughters was mentioned, and it was insufficient consolation to discover that Guy had been similarly ignored. Stella, in a codicil dated three weeks previously, was to receive two thousand pounds upon her twenty-fifth birthday on condition that she was not at that time either betrothed or married to Dr Fielding. The bulk of the estate was inherited by Randall, but a disastrous provision had been made for Mrs Matthews, and for Harriet. Gregory Matthews, with what both ladies could only feel to have been malicious spite, had bequeathed to them jointly his house and all that was in it with a sum sufficient for its upkeep to be administered by his two executors, Randall and Giles Carrington.
While Giles Carrington, who was a stranger to them, was present the various members of the family had for decency's sake to control their feelings, but no sooner had he departed than Mrs Lupton set the ball rolling by saying: “Well, no one need think that I am in any way surprised, for I am not. Gregory never showed the faintest consideration for anyone during his lifetime, and it would be idle to suppose that he would change in death.”
Randall raised his brows at this, and mildly remarked: “This document is not a communication from the Other Side, I can assure you, aunt”
“I am well aware of that, thank you, Randall. Nor would it astonish me to learn that you had a great deal to do with the drawing-up of the Will. To refer to me as his beloved sister, and then to leave me a portrait of himself which I never admired and do not want makes me suspect strongly that you had a finger in the pie.”
“Perhaps,” said Stella, looking him in the eye, “it was you who had this bright notion of leaving me two thousand pounds with strings tied to it?”
“Darling, I wouldn't have left you a penny,” replied Randall lovingly.
“That would suit me just as well,” said Stella. “I don't want his filthy two thousand, and I wouldn't touch it if I were starving!”
Agues Crewe, who had come down with her husband to hear the Will read, said:. “I didn't expect uncle to remember me in his Will, but I must admit that it does upset me to think that Baby is not even mentioned. After all, the mite is the only representative of the third generation, and I do think uncle might have left him something, even if it were only quite a little thing.”
Owen Crewe, a quiet man in the late thirties, said pleasantly: “No doubt he felt that my son was hardly a member of the Matthews family, my dear.”
Agnes, as fair-minded as her mother, and with her sister's invincible good-nature, replied: “Well, there is that, of course, but after all, I'm a Matthews, and—”
“On the contrary, my dear,” said Owen, “you were a Lupton before you married me.”
Agnes gave her jolly laugh. “Oh, you men! You always have an answer to everything. Well, there's no use crying over spilt milk, and I shan't say another word about it.”
“That is an excellent resolve, my dear, and one that I hope you won't break more than three times a day,” replied Owen gravely.
Henry Lupton, who had made no contribution to the conversation till now, suddenly said with a deprecating little laugh: “Blessed is he that expecteth nothing.”
“You may consider yourself blessed if you choose,” said his wife severely. “I am far from looking at it in that light. Gregory was a thoroughly selfish man, though I am sorry to have to say such a thing of my own brother, and when I think that but for me he would be buried by now, and no one a penny the wiser as to the cause of his death I am extremely sorry that I did not wash my hands of the whole affair.”
“No, no!” remonstrated Randall. “Think of the coals of fire you are heaping on his ghostly head!”
“Please do not be irreverent, Randall! I am not at all amused.”
“It seems to me that the whole Will is rottenly unfair!” exclaimed Guy bitterly. “Why should Stella get two thousand pounds and me nothing? Why should Randall bone the lot? He wasn't uncle's son any more than I was!”
“It was because of my endearing personality, little cousin,” explained Randall.
“No one—no one has as much cause for complaint as I have!” said Miss Matthews in a low, trembling voice. “For years I've slaved to make Gregory comfortable, and not squander the housekeeping money as others would have done, and what is my reward? It was downright wicked of him, and I only hope I never come across him when I die, because I shall certainly tell him what I think of him if I do!”
She rushed from the room as she spoke, and Randall at once turned to Mrs Matthews, saying with an air of great affability: “And what has my dear Aunt Zoë to say?”
Mrs Matthews rose nobly to the occasion. She said with a faint, world-weary smile: “I have nothing to say, Randall. I have been trying to forget all these earthly, unimportant things and to fix my mind on the spiritual side of it all.”
Henry Lupton, who thought her a very sweet woman, looked round with a touch of nervous defiance, and said: “Well, I think we may say that Zoë sets us all an example, don't you?”
“Henry,” said his wife awfully, “I am ready to go home.”
Mrs Matthews maintained her air of resignation, but when alone with either or both of her children found a good deal to say about the Will. “It is not that one wants anything,” she told them, “but one misses the thought for others. Consideration for people's feelings means so much in this dark world, as I hope you will both of you remember always. I had no claim on Gregory, though since I was his brother's wife I daresay a lot of people would disagree with me on that point. As far as actual money goes I expected nothing, but it would have been such a comfort if there had been some little sign to show that I was not quite forgotten. I am afraid poor Gregory—”
“Well, there is a sign,” said Stella bluntly. “You've got a half-share in the house, and it isn't to cost you anything to keep up.”
“That was not quite what I meant, dear,” said Mrs Matthews, vague but repressive. “Poor Gregory! I have nothing but the kindest memories of him, but I am afraid his was what I call an insensitive nature. He never knew the joy of giving. In some ways he was curiously hard. Perhaps if he had had more imagination—and yet I don't know that it would have made any difference. Sometimes I think that he was brought up to be selfish through and through. I was very, very fond of him, but I don't think he ever had a thought for anyone but himself in all his life.”
“He was rather a mean brute,” agreed Stella.
“No, darling, you must never think that,” said her mother gently. “Try only to look on the best side of people. Your uncle had some very sterling qualities, and it wasn't his fault that he was hard, and selfish, and not always very kind to others. We cannot help our natures, though some of us do try.”
“Well,” said Stella, correctly divining the reason for these strictures on her uncle's character, “one comfort is that Aunt Harriet can't live for ever.”
“That kind of person nearly always does,” said Mrs Matthews, forgetting for the moment to be Christian. “She'll go on and on, getting more eccentric every day.”
Stella laughed. “Cheer up, Mummy! She's years older than you are, anyway.”
“I only wish that I had her health,” said Mrs Matthews gloomily. “Unfortunately I've never been strong, and I'm not likely to get better at my age. My nerves are not a thing I should ever expect your aunt to sympathise with—I've often noticed that people who are never ill themselves have not the faintest understanding of what it means to be more or less always seedy—but though I make a point of never letting anyone guess how very far from well I often feel, I do sometimes long for a little more consideration.”
“Aunt Harriet isn't such a bad old stick,” remarked Guy, glancing up from his book.
“You don't have to live with her all day,” replied his mother with a touch of asperity. She recollected herself, and added: “Not that I don't fully realise all her good points, but I can't help wondering what induced your uncle to leave her a half-share in this great house. She would be far happier in a little place of her own. She's always complaining that this house is too big, and runs away with so much money, and we all know that she really is not capable of doing the housekeeping—which I've no doubt she'll insist on doing the same as ever.”
“But mother, you know your health would never stand the worry of housekeeping,” said Stella tactfully.
“No, darling, that is not to be thought of—not that I should consider my health for a moment if it weren't my duty to keep myself as well as possible for your sakes—but if I had my way I should install a competent housekeeper.”
“That's more or less what Aunt Harriet is,” said Guy.
“She is not in the least competent,” retorted Mrs Matthews. “And really her mania for using things up, and saving money on sheer necessities, like coal, will drive me into my grave! It's all very well for you two: you have your own lives, and your own amusements, but at my age I don't think I'm unreasonable to want a house of my own, where I can entertain my friends without having Harriet grudging every mouthful they eat, and wanting to turn off all the lights at eleven o'clock!”
“If you mind frightfully,” said Stella, “wouldn't your income run to a small flat, or something?”
“Not to be thought of!” said Mrs Matthews firmly. “I have to be very careful as it is.”
It was evident that she was a good deal moved, and Stella, who had not before realised how confidently she had expected to be left in sole possession of the Poplars, did what she could to console her. This was not very much, since honesty compelled her to admit that Miss Harriet Matthews was an impossible companion for anyone of Mrs Matthews' temperament. Honesty also compelled her to admit that Mrs Matthews herself was not the ideal housemate, but loyalty to her mother would not allow her to listen to her aunt's rambling complaints. Guy, though quite fond of his aunt, always defended his mother from any criticism levelled at her by any other person than himself or Stella, so Miss Matthews was in the unfortunate position of having a grievance with no one to whom she could air it. She went muttering about the house, gave vent to dark sayings at odd moments, and was fast developing a tendency to behave as though mortally injured when Mr Edward Rumbold and his wife providentially returned from Eastbourne, where they had been staying during the whole of the past week.
Miss Matthews was delighted. She was genuinely attached to Edward Rumbold, who always treated her with courtesy, and never seemed to be bored by her discursive conversation. Moreover, she had a firm belief in the infallibility of the male sex, and had very often found Mr Rumbold's counsel to be good. Her brother had more than once warned her jeeringly not to make a fool of herself over a married man, but although this advice had the power to distress her she knew that there was Nothing Like That in her relationship with Edward Rumbold, and even had he not already possessed a wife she still would not have wished for a closer tie than that of friendship.
Randall had once remarked that Edward Rumbold seemed to have been created especially to be a Friend of the Family. It was certainly true that Miss Matthews' woes were not the only ones poured into his ears. Mrs Matthews, and Stella, and Guy all took him in varying degrees into their confidence, and if he found the recital of other people's troubles wearisome, at least he was far too well-mannered to show it.
He had of course seen the notice of Gregory Matthews' death in the papers, and came round to the Poplars after his return on Saturday to offer condolences, and any help that might be needed. Mrs Rumbold accompanied him, which was not felt by the two elder ladies of the house to be an advantage.
“One wonders what he saw in her,” and “One wonders how she managed to catch him” were expressions frequently heard on Mrs and Miss Matthews' tongues, and they both persisted, in spite of his evident fondness for his wife, in pitying him from the bottom of their hearts. Miss Matthews usually referred to Mrs Rumbold as That Woman, while her more charitable sister-in-law spoke of her as Poor Mrs Rumbold, and said that That Type always pulled a man down. Occasionally she added that it was very sad that the Rumbolds were childless, and it was generally understood that this circumstance was in her opinion a further blot on Mrs Rumbold's character.
Actually it would have been hard to have found a couple more quietly devoted to each other than Edward and Dorothy Rumbold. They took little part in the social activities of Grinley Heath, but spent a considerable portion of the year in travelling, and always seemed to be content with one another's company. Edward Rumbold was a fine-looking man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair, very regular features, and a pair of steady, far-seeing eyes. His wife was less prepossessing, but persons not so biased as Mrs and Miss Matthews had no difficulty in perceiving wherein lay her attraction for Edward Rumbold. “She must have been awfully pretty when she was young,” said Stella.
She was still pretty in a kind light, for she had large blue eyes, and a retrousse nose which gave a piquancy to her face. Unfortunately she was a blonde who had faded quickly, and she had sought to rejuvenate herself by the not entirely felicitous use of hair-dye, and rouge. Nature had intended her, at the age of forty-seven, to be greyhaired and plump, but Art and Slimming Exercises had given her bronze locks and a sylph-like silhouette. She was always rather lavishly made-up, and had lately taken to painting her eyelashes a startling blue, and her fingernails a repulsive crimson. She was as kind as she was common, and Stella and Guy (though they vied with one another in inventing her past history) liked her, and said that she was a Good Sort.
She sat beside Miss Matthews on the sofa in the drawing-room when she came with her husband to condole, and said: “You poor dear! It must have been a terrible shock. I was ever so upset when I read it in the paper. I couldn't believe it at first, not till I saw the address, and even then I couldn't seem to take it in, could I, Ned?”
“It was surely quite unexpected?” he said, his quiet voice in somewhat striking contrast to his wife's shrill tones.
This civil question had the effect of causing Miss Matthews to break into a torrent of words. Gregory Matthews' constitution, his disregard of his health, the duck he had eaten at his last meal, Mrs Lupton's spite, and the scandal of a post-mortem were all crammed higgledy-piggledy into one speech.
“I am exceedingly sorry! I had no idea!” Mr Rumbold said. “Of course it must be most unpleasant for you all.”
“Why, whatever can have made Mrs Lupton go and say a thing like that?” wondered Mrs Rumbold. “As though anyone would want to murder Mr Matthews! No, really, I do call it downright spiteful, don't you, Ned?”
“I expect she was upset,” he answered.
“So were we all, but we didn't say he'd been poisoned!” retorted Miss Matthews. “I wished very much that you had been here to advise me. I shall always feel that something ought to have been done to stop it, no matter what anyone says!”
He smiled a little. “I'm afraid you wouldn't have been able to stop it,” he replied. “And after all, if there is any feeling of suspicion you'd rather have it put to rest, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, if it is put to rest,” agreed Miss Matthews. “But it's my belief that as soon as you start stirring things up something shocking is bound to be discovered where you least expect it”
“The idea that Gregory was poisoned is merely absurd,” said Mrs Matthews. “Of that I am convinced.”
“Yes, I daresay you are, but you know very well Guy had been quarrelling with him, not to mention Stella.”
The effect of this speech was to turn Mrs Matthews from a Christian woman into something more nearly resembling a tigress at bay. There was even something faintly suggestive of a feline crouch in the way she leaned forward in her chair, with her hands gripping the arms of it. “Perhaps you would like to explain what you mean by that, Harriet?” she said in a low, menacing voice. “Please do so! And remember that you are speaking of My Children!”
Miss Matthews quailed, as well she might, and said tearfully that she meant nothing at all.
“Ah!” said Mrs Matthews, relaxing her taut muscles. “I am glad of that, Harriet.”
Under her delicate make-up she was quite pale. Guy leaned over the back of her chair, and grinned down at her. “Attaboy, ma!” he said approvingly.
She put up her hand to clasp his, but said only: “Please don't use that vulgar expression, dear. You know I dislike it.
“I'm sure,” said Miss Matthews, groping in her pocket for her handkerchief, “you needn't turn on me, Zoë! Nobody could be fonder of Guy than I am—and of Stella too, of course. I was only thinking how it would look to an outsider.”
Mrs Matthews recovered her poise. “Don't let us say any more about it. You naturally cannot be expected to understand a mother's feelings.” She turned to Mrs Rumbold, and said graciously: “And has your stay at the seaside done you good, Mrs Rumbold?”
“Oh, I'm splendid, thanks!” replied Mrs Rumbold. “It was only Ned who would have it I needed a change of air.” She threw him a warm look as she spoke, and added: “You wouldn't believe the way he spoils me, that man!”
Mrs Matthews smiled politely, but made no remark. Miss Matthews, with a glance of hatred cast in her direction, asked Mr Rumbold to come and look at the plumb ago, and bore him off in triumph to the conservatory. She was a keen horticulturist, and soon became torn between a desire to talk solely of her troubles and an even stronger desire to compare notes with him on the progress of their respective rarities. She contrived in the end to do both, but became somewhat muddled, and kept on handing him earthy pots of flowers (which he could have looked at just as easily without having to hold them) with a slightly inconsequent recommendation to him to Look at the way she's behaving now, just as though she owned the whole house! He escaped from her presently on the pretext of being obliged to go and wash his hands, and went upstairs to do so only to fall a victim, on his way down again, to Mrs Matthews, who was on the look-out for him.
Later, Stella accompanied both the visitors down the drive to the gate, and said with a twinkle: “Did Mother tell you all her woes when Aunt Harriet had finished telling you hers, Mr Rumbold?”
He laughed. “You're an irreverent minx, Stella. She did tell me a certain amount.”
“Well, I hope you smoothed them both down. They're rather on each other's nerves.”
“And I'm sure it's not to be wondered at,” said Mrs Rumbold kindly. “A death in the house is enough to upset anybody, and when it comes to inquests and things, I'm not surprised at your mother and your auntie being a bit on edge.”
“We all are,” Stella said. “Uncle wasn't poisoned, of course, but somehow when a thing like that has been suggested you find yourself—sort of speculating on who might have done it. It's horrid.”
“I shouldn't think about it at all, if I were you,” said Edward Rumbold with calm good sense. “Dr Fielding is much more fitted to judge than your Aunt Gertrude, you know.”
“Yes,” agreed Stella. “Only if it did happen to be true, and the police come and ask us all questions won't it look rather black that Guy, and D—that Guy and I have been having rows with uncle?”
“Of course it won't,” said Edward Rumbold comfortingly. “The police don't arrest people merely because they've been quarrelling, you know! You're too fond of meeting troubles halfway, young woman.”
“Well, all I can say is I hope they don't come,” said Stella unconvinced.
“I don't suppose they will,” said Mr Rumbold.
But at ten o'clock on Monday morning Beecher went to the store-room in search of Miss Matthews, and in ominous silence held out a silver tray with a visiting-card reposing on it.
The card bore the name of Detective-Superintendent Hannasyde, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard. Miss Matthews gave a startled gasp, and dropped it as though it were red-hot.
“I've shown them into the library, miss,” said Beecher.