Mrs Matthews saw that both her children were watching her. She straightened in her chair, smiled, and turned her head to speak to the butler. “Very well, Beecher,” she said, her voice once more smooth and controlled. “Show them in here, please.”
A moment later Hannasyde came into the room.
Mrs Matthews bowed slightly. “Good-afternoon, Superintendent. You wish to see me?”
“I wish to ask you some questions, Mrs Matthews, about Miss Harriet Matthews' death.”
She raised her brows. “Surely you are a little premature in assuming that my sister-in-law's death is a case for the police?”
Hannasyde looked steadily down at her, and replied: “Have you any objections to answering my questions, Mrs Matthews?”
“It is very painful to me to have to discuss it,” said Mrs Matthews with sorrowful dignity.
“I quite appreciate that it must be,” said Hannasyde. “I am sorry to intrude on you at such a moment, but I am sure you will realise that in the circumstances my department is bound to investigate the matter.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Mrs Matthews. “But one cannot help feeling that Dr Fielding's conduct has been extraordinary. We ourselves believe that my sister-in-law had a stroke.”
“That is a point which the medical authorities must determine,” said Hannasyde. “When was Miss Matthews first taken ill?”
“I am afraid you will have to ask my son or my daughter that question,” replied Mrs Matthews. “You see, I never come down to breakfast, so I don't know what happened until my poor sister-in-law came upstairs.”
Hannasyde turned towards Stella, who answered at once: “My aunt said that she didn't feel very well when she came down to breakfast. It was a little before nine o'clock, I think.”
“Did your aunt say when she first began to feel ill?”
“N-no. No, I'm nearly sure she didn't. She just said, "I don't feel very well this morning," or something like that.”
“Did she ever take anything before breakfast? Early tea, for instance?”
“Yes, she always had early tea.”
“Who took that to her?”
“Oh, the under-housemaid! Usually the upper housemaid, but we haven't got one at the moment.”
“Does she also prepare the tea?”
“I don't know. She or the cook, I suppose.”
“Did Miss Matthews take anything else? Any medicine, perhaps?”
Stella looked questioningly at her mother, but Mrs Matthews shook her head. “Really, Superintendent, I've no idea what my sister-in-law may or may not have taken.”
Hannasyde did not pursue this. Instead he asked Stella what her aunt had eaten for breakfast. When he heard that Miss Matthews had had only tea and one slice of bacon, he said: “Was it the same tea which you and your brother drank, Miss Matthews?”
“Well, I had coffee,” replied Stella. “Guy, you had the tea, didn't you?”
“Yes,” said Guy. “Same pot, too.”
“And after breakfast, what did your aunt do?”
“Ah, there I can help you,” intervened Mrs Matthews. “I was just going to have my bath when my sister-in-law came upstairs, and told me that she felt sick and rather giddy. Nothing to alarm one. Indeed, I thought it no more than a slight bilious attack, but I always feel that one can't be too careful, especially when one is getting on in years as my sister-in-law was. So I made her go to bed with a hot-water bottle.”
“Did you give her anything for this sickness, Mrs Matthews?”
“Yes, I gave her a dose of some very excellent medicine which I have made up for indigestion. My own doctor—Dr Herbert Martin of Harley Street—prescribed it for me, and I know from my own experience —”
“I should like to see both the medicine and the glass it was given in,” said Hannasyde.
“Certainly,” said Mrs Matthews, as one humouring a child's whim. “But naturally the glass has been washed, and put away.”
“Are you sure of that?” Hannasyde asked. “Was the glass removed from Miss Matthews' bedroom?”
“Oh, surely!” Mrs Matthews said, wrinkling her brow. “I should never have left it there. It was my own medicine-glass, and I'm afraid I'm very fussy about things like that. I always like to be sure that they are properly washed, and put away.”
“Did you perhaps wash the glass yourself?”
Mrs Matthews put a hand to her brow. “I don't think I remember. I may have, or it may simply have gone down to the pantry.”
“Well, I can find that out by asking the servants,” Hannasyde said cheerfully. “You did not think to ask your doctor to call and see Miss Matthews?”
“Oh no!” Mrs Matthews said. “My sister-in-law did not want a doctor to be called in, and really I could not see that it was at all necessary.”
“Did your sister-in-law say that she didn't want a doctor?”
“I don't know that she actually said those words, but she was not a person who ever consulted doctors very willingly. I am very sorry that she didn't, for if only she had been under some good man I feel that whatever it was that was wrong with her might have been treated, and she would have been with us now. Undoubtedly there must have been some trouble which we none of us knew about —”
“Then when you put your sister-in-law to bed you saw no cause for alarm?”
“Absolutely none!” replied Mrs Matthews earnestly.
“And later, when she grew worse, did you still feel no anxiety?”
“But you see I had no idea!” Mrs Matthews said. “I did not go into her room again until about twelve o'clock —”
Hannasyde interrupted: “One moment, Mrs Matthews. You say you did not go to her again until about twelve. When was it that you left Miss Matthews?”
Mrs Matthews smoothed the pleats of her frock rather nervously. “I really don't think I can tell you. I didn't look at the time. After all, why should I?”
“What time do you usually get up, Mrs Matthews?”
“Oh, when I have had my breakfast! I never take anything but tea, and a little toast, so —”
“Quite. But I want to know when you get up in the morning, please.”
“Really, Superintendent, you cannot expect me to keep a detailed timetable of my —”
Edward Rumbold spoke for the first time. “I think you always get up at about the same time, don't you, Mrs Matthews? Somewhere between half-past nine and ten, isn't it?”
“Yes, generally,” she said reluctantly. “Oh—this is Mr Rumbold, Superintendent, a very great friend of ours. He has been most kind —”
“You know, I don't think the Superintendent wants to hear about my so-called kindness, dear Mrs Matthews,” said Rumbold. “Stella, can you perhaps help over this question of time?”
She said hesitatingly: “You mean—when Mummy put Aunt Harriet to bed?”
“Yes. Your mother is feeling too upset to remember very clearly, but naturally the Superintendent must know when it was,” he said reassuringly. “If you know, tell him.”
She looked at him in rather a frightened way, but he repeated calmly: “Do you know, Stella?”
“Well, yes. I know it was just ten when I went upstairs, because the grandfather clock in the hall was striking. Mummy was just coming out of Aunt Harriet's room with a —” She saw her mother's eyes fixed on her, and broke off.
“With what, Miss Matthews?”
Stella gave a little laugh. “Well, I was going to say, with her dressing-gown on, but I suppose that's irrelevant.” She found that the Superintendent was steadily regarding her, and with a slightly heightened colour she added: “And I asked if Aunt Harriet was worse, and my mother said she didn't think it was anything much, but that she'd put her to bed, and—and given her some stuff to take. Then I went down to the kitchen, and afterwards out to the shops.”
“Thank you.” Hannasyde turned towards Mrs Matthews again. “It seems then that you left your sister-in-law at ten o'clock. Did you go out after that?”
“Out?” repeated Mrs Matthews. “No, I had many little duties to perform about the house.”
“And between ten and twelve you did not go into Miss Matthews' room?”
“No. I wrote letters, and then I had to do the flowers.”
“You did not think it advisable to look in on your sister-in-law, if only to see whether she wanted anything?”
Mrs Matthews replied with dignity: “No, Superintendent, I did not. When I left her my sister-in-law was drowsy. I thought it far better that she should have a good sleep.”
He accepted this without comment, and asked: “At twelve o'clock, when you did go into her room, did there not seem to you to be anything amiss?”
“I thought she was still asleep. I opened the door very quietly, and just peeped in. She was lying on her side—she seemed asleep. The curtains were drawn, so naturally I could not see very clearly. I went away again, and it was not until lunch-time when I sent my daughter to see how she was feeling, that I had the least suspicion of what had happened. Even then I could not believe that she was dead. My son rang up the doctor immediately. It was he who broke the terrible news to us.”
“Thank you,” said Hannasyde. “Mr Matthews, were you at home this morning?”
“Yes,” replied Guy.
“All the morning?”
“Yes, I was working in this very room. Anything else I can tell you?”
“Nothing, thank you. I should like, however, to interview the housemaid who took up Miss Matthews' early tea.”
“All right, I'll ring for her,” said Guy, moving towards the bell.
“Perhaps,” said Hannasyde, “it would be possible for me to see her in some other room?”
Guy flushed. “Oh, certainly! See her anywhere you like!”
“I should very much prefer you to wait until you have proof that my sister-in-law was poisoned,” said Mrs Matthews stiffly. “All this is very upsetting to the servants, and we are already short-handed. Moreover, Mary cannot possibly tell you any more than we have, for she doesn't know anything.”
“In that case I shan't keep her long from her work, Mrs Matthews.”
Beecher came into the room. Guy said: “Yes, I rang, Beecher. Take the Superintendent to the morning-room, will you, and send Mary to him there.”
“Very good, sir.” Beecher held the door open for Hannasyde, and ushered him out into the hall, and across it to the morning-room.
In a few minutes Mary appeared, round-eyed and scared, and stood just inside the door, with her hands behind her back. “Yes, sir?” she said in a frightened whisper.
Hannasyde bade her good-afternoon, and asked her what her name was. She told him, and he said: “I shan't keep you long. I just want you to tell me who made Miss Matthews' early tea this morning, and who took it up to her.”
“Mrs Beecher, she made the tea, sir. It was me carried the trays up—me and the kitchen maid.”
“Which of you took Miss Matthews' tray?”
“I don't rightly know, sir. The kitchen maid, she only took two trays up the stairs and put them down on the table on the landing. I can't exactly remember which they was.”
“Did the kitchen maid go downstairs again once she had put the trays down on the table?”
“Oh yes, sir! She only carried them up to oblige. She doesn't go into any of the bedrooms.”
“No, I see. And whose tray did you take in first?”
Mary blushed, and stood on one leg. “Well, Mr Guy's, sir. He does like his tea so hot!”
“Were you long in his room?”
“Oh no, sir!” said Mary, shocked. “I only put the tray down by the bed, and drew the curtains back, and things like that.”
“Things like what?”
“Well, straightening the room, sir, and putting his shaving-water on the washstand, and waking him up.”
“So you might have been there about five minutes or so?”
“Yes, I expect it would be about that,” Mary agreed. “When you came out again was anyone on the landing?”
“Oh no!” Mary said. “Whatever would anyone be out there for at that hour?”
“I just wanted to know. Whose was the next tray you took in?”
“I took Mrs Matthews' hot water in, sir. She doesn't have tea.”
“Did you have to wake her, too?”
Mary shook her head. “Mrs Matthews is always awake in the mornings. She doesn't never sleep after six, so she told me.”
“Doesn't she? Whose tray was the next?”
“Miss Harriet's, sir. She was awake, too.”
“Did she seem quite well then, or did she complain of feeling ill?”
“No, sir, she didn't say nothing about feeling ill. She was just like she always was.”
“Did you go into her room again at any time during the morning?”
“No, I never saw her again,” replied Mary, ready tears springing to her eyes. “Mrs Matthews gave orders no one wasn't to disturb her.”
Hannasyde asked her no more questions, but sent her away to find the butler, in whose charge Dr Fielding had left the key of Miss Matthews' bedroom. The Sergeant, who had been pursuing investigations in the servants' hall, joined him, and escorted by Beecher they went upstairs together.
Miss Matthews' room, at first glance, told them nothing. The Superintendent got rid of Beecher, and shut the door. “If she was poisoned the stuff may have been put into her early-morning tea,” he said. “Apparently the tray was left on that table outside for a few minutes while the housemaid took young Matthews' tray to his room. Or it may have been given in the medicine Mrs Matthews gave the unfortunate woman. That presupposes that she felt unwell this morning from purely natural causes, of course.”
The Sergeant pursed his mouth. “It's what I'd call an audacious sort of a crime, Chief. If it's more of this nicotine it looks like the same person at work. Well, I have known people get away with one clever murder, and think themselves so smart they can get away with another, but to go and commit the second murder before the police have finished with the first strikes me as being fair madness! What's more, if this turns out to be murder there's only Mrs Matthews could have done it, as far as I can see. How's she taking it?”
“She's upset. But the woman's such a mass of insincerity it's very hard to know what to make of her.”
“That's where psychology comes in,” said the Sergeant.
“I'm looking for motive, thanks. She had one for murdering Gregory Matthews, but to poison a woman because you want her share of the house seems too thin.”
“I don't know,” said the Sergeant ruminatingly. “Some of the nastiest murders we've handled were committed because of some reason no one in their senses would think big enough. But what I'd like to know, Chief, is where our precious Hyde fits in now?”
Hannasyde shook his head. “It's beyond me. Perhaps he doesn't; perhaps we've been wasting our time looking for him.” He glanced round the room. “Hemingway, I want every conceivable thing poison could have been put into. Collect them, will you? Pills, and medicines, and face-creams, and lotions.”
“Right!” said the Sergeant briskly. “But we don't know that it was poison yet, do we?”
“You heard what Fielding had to say. He's seen one case of nicotine poisoning, and he thinks this is another.”
“Well, if he's right there's someone pretty ruthless at work,” remarked the Sergeant. “And what's more it hasn't made the case any easier. Of course, if it was Mrs Matthews the thing straightens out at once, but it knocks out Hyde, and it knocks out young Randall. And somehow, Chief, that doesn't satisfy me. Hyde's a blinking mystery, and I'm naturally suspicious of mysteries; and young Randall's hiding something.” He had walked over to the washstand, and was inspecting a bottle of mouthwash. “But why did either of them want to do in a harmless old body like Miss Matthews? It doesn't make sense. What about this gargle? Do you want it?”
“Yes, and that tube of ointment.”
“It isn't ointment,” said the Sergeant. “It's toothpaste. There's another one here too, but that's empty.”
“Take it, anyway. I'm not leaving anything to chance this time.”
Just as you say, Super,” said the Sergeant. “But if you ask me the likeliest place for poison was in the tea, or in that medicine you say Mrs Matthews gave the old girl.”
“Yes,” agreed Hannasyde, “but we've got to try everything. The tea-things were washed up hours ago, and so was the medicine-glass.” He stopped, and then said suddenly: “Aren't tea-leaves kept sometimes to lay the dust when the floors are swept?”
“That's right,” said the Sergeant, and put down the tin of cough-lozenges he had picked up. “I'll see if I can get hold of today's little lot.”
But he came back presently, and shook his head. “They don't hold with it,” he said shortly. “Mostly use an Electrolux. You know, you can begin to understand why people talk about the curse of the machine-age, can't you? Tea-leaves burned with all the other rubbish.” He began to pack into his attaché-case all the pots and the bottles which Hannasyde had collected. “Lot of talk going on in the servants' quarters,” he said. “They don't like Mrs Matthews. Seems to have been a fair amount of what you might call friction going on ever since the old man died. They say Miss Stella's clearing out because she wouldn't live with her aunt. The cook can't stand Mrs M., but at the same time she says that Harriet M. has been carrying on like a lunatic this last week. Gone potty on economy. I think there's a case against Mrs M. all right.”
On their way downstairs again they met Edward Rumbold, who was awaiting them in the hall. He said: “You're leaving now, Superintendent? Mrs Matthews would rather like to know when you expect to hear the result of the post-mortem.”
“I'm afraid I can't tell you that,” replied Hannasyde. “Not very long, I think.” He looked Rumbold over, and asked: “Are you a close friend of the family, Mr Rumbold?”
“I live next door,” Rumbold answered. “I think I may say that I am a fairly close friend.”
“Did you know the late Mr Matthews well?”
Rumbold smiled faintly. “I doubt whether anyone did, Superintendent. I certainly knew him.”
“Perhaps you can help me over a small matter,” Hannasyde said. “Did Mr Matthews ever make any mention to you of any business in which he was interested?”
Rumbold frowned. “I don't think I quite understand. Do you mean some speculative venture? He did once or twice ask my opinion of investments he thought of making.”
“No, that wasn't what I meant. You don't know whether he was engaged in any business which his family didn't know about?”
,He never mentioned it to me if he was,” answered Rumbold. “What sort of a business?”
“That I can't tell you. I thought it possible Mr Matthews might have confided in you.”
Rumbold shook his head. “No, he never spoke of anything like that.”
Hannasyde sighed, and said: “He seems to have been very reticent. Tell me, did you happen to see him on the day he died?”
“No, I was away. I only got back last week.”
“Oh, I see!” Hannasyde said. “Never mind, then: it doesn't much matter.”
Edward Rumbold, rejoining the family in the library, made no mention of his conversation with the Superintendent, but merely said that Hannasyde had not told him when he expected to receive the analyst's report.
“What does it matter?” Stella said impatiently. “What's the use of blinking facts? We know she was poisoned!”
“My dear child, we do not know anything of the sort,” said Mrs Matthews. “Please try to control yourself !”
“Why did you pretend you couldn't remember who had washed that medicine-glass?” Stella demanded. “Mother, why?”
Mrs Matthews arranged her pleats again. “Really, Stella!” she protested. “I should have thought you must have known that my memory is not my strongest point. I have had far more important things to think about today than who washed up a glass.”
“You always do it yourself ! You told me so!”
“Very well, dear, no doubt I did wash it, then. It is not a very vital matter, after all.”
Stella was silenced, and turned away. Guy said, as though he had been rehearsing it: “I suppose you know that Aunt Harriet's money comes to me?”
“Money!” said Mrs Matthews sharply. “She had none to speak of. Don't be so foolish, Guy! And I don't think it's quite nice of you, dear boy, to think about what poor Harriet may or may not have left you when she's only been dead —”
“There's about four thousand,” Guy interrupted. “God knows I could do with it, too!”
Stella made a choking sound, and went hastily out of the room. The telephone on the hall-table caught her eye. She stood still, looking at it, and then, as though of impulse, picked up the receiver, and gave a number.
In a little while a precise voice answered her. Stella asked if she could speak to Mr Matthews.
“Mr Matthews is not at home, madam,” answered the precise voice.
“Oh!” said Stella. “When do you expect him back?”
“I couldn't say, madam. Can I take a message?”
“No, it doesn't—Yes! Ask him to ring Miss Stella Matthews up as soon as he comes in, will you, please?”
She put the receiver down again, and turned to find that Guy had followed her out of the library, and was standing staring at her.
“What on earth do you want with Randall?” Guy demanded.
Stella flushed. “He's the head of the family, and he said he was going to see this through. Besides, he knows something.”
“He'd like us to think he does,” said Guy scornfully. “And if you can tell me what the devil could make him want to dispose of Aunt Harriet you're darned clever. I thought he might have had a hand in uncle's death, though I still can't see how, but setting aside the fact that he wasn't here when aunt died, why should he do it?”
“I don't know. I mean, I don't think he did do it. But everything's like a nightmare, and at least he's sane.” She gripped her hands together nervously. “Why did you come out with all that rubbish about Aunt Harriet's money?”
Guy laughed. “Well, it's perfectly true, and it's bound to come out, so why should I try and conceal it?”
“Guy, you won't do anything silly, will you?” she asked anxiously.
“I'm not likely to. You keep your hair on,” he said, and walked away towards the morning-room.
It was not until after dinner that Randall rang up. As soon as she heard his soft voice Stella said: “Oh, it's you at last! Where have you been? I—”
“At the races, sweetheart. And what do you want with my unworthy self?”
“Randall, the most ghastly thing's happened. Aunt Harriet's dead!”
There was a slight pause. “Aunt Harriet is what?” asked Randall.
“Dead,” Stella repeated. “This morning. And they think it's poison.” The silence that greeted this pronouncement was so prolonged that she said: “Are you there? They think she was poisoned, I tell you!”
“I heard you,” said Randall. “I am somewhat taken aback. Who are "they", may I ask?”
“Deryk Fielding, and of course the police. I can't tell you it all over the phone. There's a post-mortem being done.”
“And what, my lamb, do you expect me to do?” inquired Randall.
“You said you were going to see the thing through!”
“What a rash statement!”
“Couldn't you come down?” Stella said impatiently.
“I could, but I'm not going to. Tomorrow I might. Do you want me?”
“I want you to clear it up. You said —”
“My sweet, you can forget what I said. If Aunt Harriet has been poisoned, nothing I said is of any value. I will come down and see you tomorrow.”
With this she had to be content. She did not tell her mother that Randall was coming, and she hoped that his visit might take place whilst Mrs Matthews was at Church. But Mrs Matthews returned from Church, bringing Edward Rumbold with her before any sign of Randall had been seen, and it was not until nearly half past twelve that the Mercedes swung into the drive and Randall came into the house.
Mrs Matthews, who did not look as though she had slept much during the night, was describing to Mr Rumbold the atmosphere of peace which she said had descended on her in Church, but she broke off as Randall entered the room, and looked anything but peaceful. “Randall!” she said. “I suppose one might have expected you.”
“One might, but apparently one didn't,” said Randall. “Do not let me interrupt you, my dear aunt. I am always interested in your spiritual experiences.”
“Matthews, your aunt has had a great shock,” Rumbold said quietly.
“We have all had a great shock,” agreed Randall. “Are you very much upset, my dear Aunt Zoë? I am sure that well-meaning Superintendent is.”
“What makes you think that?” inquired Rumbold.
“Well,” said Randall, critically surveying his own tie in the mirror over the mantelpiece, “when last I saw him he was busily concocting a case against a person unknown.”
“What do you mean?” Stella asked. “Are you just trying to be funny?”
“My precious! At this solemn hour?” Randall met her eyes in the mirror, and looked beyond her reflection to where he could see Mrs Matthews, seated beside Rumbold on the sofa.
“Then what—who is the unknown person?”
“Don't be silly, darling,” said Randall, still not satisfied with the set of his tie. “Naturally, no one knows. His name is Hyde -John Hyde. Do you know a john Hyde, Aunt Zoë?”
“No, Randall, I do not, nor do I pretend to know what you are talking about.”
“What has this John Hyde of yours to do with Miss Matthews' death?” asked Rumbold. “Who is he? I mean —”
“That is what the police want to know,” said Randall. “They have been hunting for him high and low. Not that he had anything to do with my poor Aunt Harriet's untimely end. He's dead, you know.”
“He's dead?” repeated Rumbold.
“Or, rather,” pursued Randall, “a notice of his death appeared in the paper several days ago.”
Rumbold stared at him. “A notice of his death appeared in the paper?” he said. “But—My dear Matthews, what are you talking about? First you say the police are hunting for this person called Hyde, and then you say that a notice of his death has been published. Which do you mean?”
“Oh, both!” said Randall, turning away from the mirror and facing him. “The police are so disbelieving. They don't think Hyde is dead. In fact, unless I am much mistaken they suspect him of having murdered Uncle Gregory and gone into hiding. So you see, Aunt Harriet's death must be very upsetting to them. It abolishes Hyde.”
Stella, who had been following this dialogue in some bewilderment, said: “But what has someone we've never even heard of got to do with it? I mean, what had he to do with uncle, and why should he have murdered him?”
“Why, indeed?” said Randall.
“Yes, but what makes the police suspect him?”
“Well, he's vanished, you see.”
“Yes, but —”
“Darling, don't keep on saying "yes, but." Use your intelligence. The police don't like people to vanish. It isn't seemly.”
“That's all very well,” said Rumbold, “but the police must have had some reason for suspecting him other than his disappearance—or death, whichever it was.”
“Oh, they had,” agreed Randall. “They discovered that uncle had had dealings with him. So they went to call on him, and he wasn't there. Then they went to look for his papers, and they weren't there either.”
“Weren't where?” asked Rumbold.
“In a safe-deposit. All very mysterious. You ask the Superintendent.”
Mrs Matthews heaved a weary sigh. “I can't see what any of this rigmarole has to do with your aunt's death, Randall.”
“As usual, my dear Aunt Zoë, you hit the nail on the head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
“Then why do you waste time discussing it?” she said. “Surely —”
“Just to create a diversion,” said Randall sweetly. “But I'll discuss Aunt Harriet's death instead if you prefer it. When and how did she die?”
Mrs Matthews shuddered. “I am sorry, Randall. I am afraid I can't bring myself to talk about it.”
“Then my little cousin Stella shall tell me all about it,” said Randall, and turned to her. “Would you like to drive slowly round the heath, my pet, and unburden yourself to me?”
“All right,” Stella said, after a moment's hesitation. “You've got to know, anyway. I'll go and put a hat on.”
Guy looked up quickly. “Look here, Stella —” he began, and then stopped, uncertain how to proceed.
Randall said kindly: “You mustn't be shy of me, little cousin. Naturally you want to warn her not to say anything indiscreet.”
This left Guy without a word to say. He glared at Randall, who smiled and opened the door for Stella to pass out.
She did not keep him waiting long while she put on her hat, but soon came out to the car, and got in beside him. “Thank God to be out of it for half-an-hour!” she said. “It's absolutely awful, Randall.”
“Yes, I didn't flatter myself you came for the pleasure of my company,” he returned, letting in the clutch.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.”
“My sweet, you're not yourself. You mustn't let it get on your nerves, you know.”
She gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, it is on them. You've got to help, Randall.”
He did not answer for a moment, and then he said with a marked drawl: “What leads you to suppose that I can help?”
“You did. You practically said you knew something.”
“Your imagination runs away with you, my pet. I said I didn't want the mystery to be solved.”
“Well, it's got to be!” said Stella fiercely.
“I'm very much afraid that it may be,” said Randall.
“Randall, what is it you know? Why do you say you're afraid it may be? You didn't kill Aunt Harriet!”
“Certainly not,” he replied calmly. “In fact, I regard Aunt Harriet's death as an entirely needless complication. You had better tell me how it happened.”
“Well, she said she didn't feel well at breakfast. Dinner the evening before had been about the worst ever, and Guy suggested it might have something to do with it.”
“By way of being helpful, or mere airy persiflage?” inquired Randall.
“Airy persiflage. Your style,” said Stella.
“You must learn to appreciate me better, darling. My style is unique.”
“All right. Just as well if it is. Anyway, aunt was annoyed and she ate some bacon, by way of proving that the sardine hadn't upset her.”
“One moment,” interposed Randall. “I like to have things clear. Does the sardine play a major part in the story? Because if so I should wish to have its role carefully explained to me.”
“No, it was the savoury at dinner, that's all.”
“If it was really all, Aunt Harriet's economy must have reached a staggering pitch,” commented Randall.
Stella gave a spurt of laughter, but became instantly sober again. “Randall, you mustn't joke. It isn't funny. And it's beastly of you to laugh at—at a thing like this.”
“Acquit me, darling. I only wanted to raise a laugh out of you.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”
He smiled. “Such a solemn Stella. I don't like it. But go on with this entrancing story.”
“Well, there isn't much more. Apparently she felt worse after breakfast, and went up to tell Mummy she wasn't well. Mummy put her back to bed, and gave her some dope, and—and she felt sleepy. And Mummy looked into her room about twelve o'clock, only she seemed to be fast asleep, so Mummy didn't disturb her, and at lunch-time I went up to her, and—and she was dead.”
Randall shot the car forward past a lorry, and slackened speed again. “And now tell me all the bits you've left out,” he said.
“I—I haven't, really. Except that I can't help feeling that the police—think Mummy had something to do with it.”
“They do not seem to be alone in that belief,” remarked Randall.
“What do you mean?” said Stella.
“If you are not afraid that your sainted parent had a hand in this, what are you worrying about, my love? Tell me the whole truth!”
“I'm not afraid she did it! I'm not, I tell you! I'm only afraid that it's going to look black against her, and I don't know what to do. She washed up the glass she gave the medicine in, and she gave orders no one was to go into aunt's room. It was what anyone would have done, Randall! but the police—made it sound fishy, and Mummy—I think Mummy saw that it did, because she said that she couldn't remember who'd washed the glass, and it was obvious that she did remember. And she kept on saying she was sure aunt had had a stroke, and—and finding reasons for it. She was worst with Deryk, but—but I don't trust him, and I'm afraid he may have told the police how she fought against having a post-mortem. Supposing they arrest her?”
“Supposing we wait and see whether Aunt Harriet was poisoned or not?” countered Randall.
“Randall, why won't you tell what you know?” said Stella imploringly. “Deryk wouldn't have said that if he hadn't been pretty sure. And if she was poisoned, don't you see that Mummy, or Guy (or me, I suppose), are the only people who had any motive at all?”
“I do,” said Randall. “But if you would all of you contrive to keep your heads, you may yet escape the gallows.”
“Don't!” she said sharply. “I thought at first you were going to be decent, and take it seriously. I might have known you'd only sneer!”
“Strange as it may seem to you, my love, I am taking it extremely seriously.”
She looked curiously at him. “Were you fond of Aunt Harriet?”
“Not in the least. But I infinitely preferred her alive to dead.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Because, my dear Stella, by dying Aunt Harriet has created a damnably awkward situation!” he answered.