Behold, Here's Poison Part 15

Randall paused with his hand stretched out to pick up his malacca cane from the counter, and let Mr Brown see his eyes. 'Look again,' he said smoothly. 'Have you seen me before?'

Mr Brown's gaze s.h.i.+fted under that curiously vivid, intent stare. 'No, I don't know as how I have,' he said uncertainly. 'Not to be sure, anyway. Just something in the cut of your jib seemed to strike me as being a bit familiar, that's all. No offence!'

Randall picked up his cane. 'None at all,' he replied. 'But you have not seen me before, Mr Brown, I can a.s.sure you. Nor are you very likely to see me again.'

Mr Brown gave him a knowing leer. 'I can keep my mouth shut, don't you worry!' he said.

A smile which Mr Brown liked even less than the expression he had found ugly a few minutes before flitted across Randall's face. 'No, I shan't worry,' he said, and walked with his graceful, untroubled gait out of the shop.

Detective Peel, observing him from the opposite side of the road, thought it worth his while to follow him at a discreet distance.

His report, made to Superintendent Hannasyde later in the day, interested the Superintendent considerably.

'Mr Randall Matthews,' he said slowly. 'Yes, you did quite right to follow him. How long was he in the shop?'

'Matter of twenty-five minutes,' replied Peel. 'Came walking down the street as though he didn't give a d.a.m.n for anyone.'

'Yes, I think he would do that,' said Hannasyde. 'It may, of course, have failed to dawn on him that the place was being watched.' He tapped the pencil he was holding on his desk. 'I think we might keep Mr Randall Matthews under observation,' he said. 'You couldn't hear what was said in the shop, I suppose?'

'No, I couldn't, Superintendent. It's a bit difficult, hanging round the entrance with so many people about,' replied Peel apologetically.

Hannasyde nodded. 'Yes, I know. It doesn't matter. But I shall be interested to see what Mr Randall Matthews' next move is.'

However, Randall Matthews' next move was an unexceptionable one. On the following afternoon, arrayed in all the sombre elegance of a morning-coat, with a sleek top-hat set at an unsuitably rakish angle on his still sleeker black head, he motored down to Grinley Heath in a hired limousine to attend his uncle's funeral.

The service was held at the Parish Church, and there were very few mourners. Apart from the dead man's relatives, only the Rumbolds, Dr Fielding, and Mr Nigel Brooke, who was Guy's partner, attended it. Nigel Brooke, a tall young man with curly yellow hair and a profile which, because some misguided person had once told him it was Grecian, he was rather too much inclined to present to the world, explained confidentially to Dr Fielding that he had only put in an appearance because one liked to do the proper thing. 'Speaking for myself,' said Mr Brooke, 'I regard funerals as pure relics of barbarism. I daresay you feel the same.'

'I have never thought it worth while to consider the matter,' replied Fielding.

This was not encouraging, but Mr Brooke said in a thoughtful voice: 'I am inclined to think that that point of view is extraordinarily indicative of the spirit of the age.'

'I shouldn't be at all surprised,' said Fielding.

'I am afraid,' said Mr Brooke, starting a fresh topic, 'that dear old Guy feels all this very much.'

'It is hardly surprising that he should.'

Mr Brooke put his head on one side. 'One is inclined to ascribe it more to an inherently artistic temperament though, than to any profound feeling of sorrow in his uncle's death.'

'I daresay.'

'After all, old Matthews was a pretty good stinker, wasn't he?' said Mr Brooke, momentarily abandoning his affectations.

The doctor made no reply to this, and after a slight pause, Mr Brooke suddenly remarked: 'There is a woman here whose setting should be a mixture of horsehair and tubular steel.'

'What?'

'Ah, you think that a little too daring, I expect,' said Mr Brooke with a smile of superiority. 'One ought never to be afraid of contrasts, however. I learned that lesson very early in my career, and believe me, I have often used the most startling anachronisms to obtain amazingly successful results.'

'I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,' said Fielding.

Mr Brooke's gaze rested dreamily on Mrs Lupton, who was just about to enter her car. 'That woman,' he said simply. 'Don't you feel it? One would resist the obvious temptation of red plush, of course.'

The doctor gave him a look of contemptuous dislike, and moved away.

The Matthews family were drifting out of the Churchyard to seek their various cars by this time, and Owen Crewe was anxiously trying to convey to his wife through the medium of silent grimace that he did not desire to accompany her to her father's house for tea.

Unfortunately Agnes was not very susceptible to messages thus conveyed, and instead of discovering an urgent need for their immediate return to town, she accepted Mrs Lupton's invitation, and said that she knew Owen would love to come. The scowl with which Owen greeted this interpretation of his wishes could not have been misread by the blindest wife, and Agnes at once said: 'You don't mind, do you, darling? You did say you were going to take the rest of the day off, didn't you?'

'I want to get out of these clothes,' said Owen, with the air of one who has been taken against his will to a fancy-dress party.

'Oh no, you look so nice in them!' said his wife fondly.

'Well, I'm not like your pansy little cousin Randall, and I feel a fool in them,' said Owen Crewe.

Randall, who had succeeded in annoying both Mrs Lupton and Miss Matthews by pressing his Aunt Zo's hand feelingly, and remarking in a voice of concern that he feared the painful nature of the occasion would prove too much for her nerves, had moved away to where the Rumbolds were waiting for their car to drive up. 'How do you do?' he said. 'An impressive sight, is it not?'

'Why, whatever do you mean?' said Mrs Rumbold, who thought him a very smart, witty young man, and was prepared to be entertained.

'Merely the spectacle of my relatives a.s.suming expression of decent grief,' said Randall.

'What things you do say, Mr Matthews! I'm sure they must feel it. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it, Ned?'

'Yes, I think it's rather unfair to a.s.sume that they none of them feel any regret,' replied Rumbold.

Randall raised his brows. 'How long have you known my affectionate family?' he drawled.

Rumbold laughed. 'Three years,' he answered.

'And your simple faith survives! I suppose you would be shocked if I ventured to ask which of my uncle's loving relatives is, in your mature judgment, the likeliest suspect?'

'Yes, I should,' said Rumbold sternly. 'Nor do I think it's a question you ought even to ask yourself.'

Mrs Rumbold, lest Randall should feel snubbed, said hastily: 'Well, I'm sure anyone might be forgiven for wondering, considering the way they were all at daggers drawn, half the time. I know one oughtn't to speak ill of the dead, but really, I do think that Mr Matthews was the limit! Talk about rude, overbearing people! Well, he fairly took the cake! And quarrelsome!'

'My dear, you had no reason to say so.'

'No, but I've heard him with his family, and what I say is, If you can be civil to strangers you can be civil in your own home, too. Not that he was always civil to strangers either, because everyone knows he was shockingly rude to the Rector, not to mention the way he behaved to Dr Fielding. And it's no credit to him that he liked you, Ned, because everybody likes you.'

'Rubbis.h.!.+' said her husband. 'He liked me because I could give him a game of chess.' A gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt crept into his eyes. 'And because he thought he could always beat me,' he added.

'Yes, I always suspected you were the soul of tact in your dealings with my uncle,' said Randall pensively. 'So was I. It saved trouble.'

Mrs Rumbold gave a giggle. 'Oh, Mr Matthews, as though you'd ever bothered to be tactful in all your life!'

'I ought perhaps to explain that tact from nephew to uncle consisted in this case of refraining from asking him for money,' said Randall.

'Well, they say virtue brings its own reward, don't they?' observed Mrs Rumbold. 'I wish someone would leave me a fortune, just for being what you call tactful!'

'It has certain disadvantages,' said Randall in his bored voice. 'It puts strange ideas into the heads of policemen, for one thing, and that, though amusing up to a point, is apt to become a nuisance.'

'I'm sure that's all nonsense,' said Mrs Rumbold, reddening. 'No one really thinks you had anything to do with it, do they, Ned?'

'What you really mean,' corrected Randall gently, 'is that everyone is afraid that I couldn't have had anything to do with it.'

Mrs Rumbold did not know what to say in answer to this, and merely looked rather uncomfortable. Her husband said bluntly: 'In face of your own remarks you can hardly object to your relations speculating on whether you might not be the guilty party.'

'Oh, I don't!' said Randall, with all his accustomed urbanity. 'I regard it as a tribute.' He perceived a speck of dust on his sleeve, and carefully flicked it away with the glove he was holding. 'Which reminds me,' he said, 'that I quite forgot to congratulate my clever Aunt Zo on the beautiful words she gave to the world through the medium of the Press. I shall have to go to the Poplars, after all.'

Rumbold's lips twitched in spite of himself, but he only said: 'Why bother?'

'Oh, I never neglect little acts of courtesy,' said Randall.

Mrs Rumbold watched him stroll away towards his hired car, and remarked that he was a caution.

'Queer chap,' Rumbold said, looking after him. 'I've never known what to make of him. Is it all pose, or is he as malicious as he seems to want us to think?'

Randall's relatives entertained no doubts on this point His arrival at the Poplars was greeted by only one member of the family with any sort of acclaim, and that one, surprisingly enough, was Stella, who, from the window in the library, saw him alight from his car, and exclaimed: 'Oh, good! Here's Randall!'

Mrs Matthews, rudely interrupted in the middle of the soulful lecture she was delivering on Death, Human Frailty, and her own thoughts during the Burial Service, sighed, and said that it made her doubly sad to think that her own daughter should have so little interest in Serious Things. Miss Matthews, sniffing into a damp handkerchief, said that it only needed that, and in any case she would like to know what Zo thought poor Gregory's death had to do with her; and Guy, staring at his sister, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed: 'Good? Have you gone batty, or something?'

'No,' snapped Stella, 'I haven't! I'd sooner have Randall being waspish than this-this atmosphere of faked-up emotion! At least he's normal, but you and Mother and Aunt Harriet are like people out of a Russian play!'

'I hope,' said Mrs Matthews, a quiver of anger in her voice, 'that you are overwrought, Stella. That could be the only possible excuse for you. You grieve me more than I can say.'

Randall had entered the room at the beginning of this speech, and stood on the threshold, regarding his aunt with anxious concern. 'No, no, we can't believe that!' he said soothingly. 'You are bereft of the power of self-expression for the moment, perhaps, but you will find words, my dear aunt, if you give yourself time. After all, when have you ever failed to find words suitable to any occasion?'

Stella turned away hurriedly, and stared out of the window, biting her lip. Even Miss Matthews stopped sniffing, and permitted herself to indulge in a somewhat sour smile. Mrs Matthews begged Randall to remember that he stood in a house of mourning, to which Randall replied: 'My dear aunt, have you no message of cheer to give us, no elevating thought to carry us through this sad day?'

'Is nothing sacred to you, Randall?' asked Mrs Matthews tragically.

'Certainly,' he replied. 'My personal appearance is quite sacred to me. I am shocked at being asked such a question. Surely you must have realised that so perfect a result could not be attained without solemn prayer?'

Stella gave a gasp 'Randall!' she said in a choking voice.

'You are an a.s.s!' remarked Guy.

'You wrong me, little cousin. Dear Aunt Zo, do not look so outraged! I have come especially to compliment you on your Message to the Public. It was only equalled by pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry's affecting words.' His mocking glance fell on Miss Matthews. 'Aunt Harriet, I must warn you that I have every intention of staying to tea. I am aware that there will not be enough cake to go round, but I am hoping that neither you nor my poor dear Aunt Zo will have the heart to eat anything. I am going upstairs to wash my hands now, and that will give you all time to think out a crus.h.i.+ng reply to me.' He opened the door as he spoke, and with an encouraging smile bestowed on both his aunts, walked out of the room.

He left behind him an atmosphere tense with hostility. His aunts joined in condemning his manners, morals, and total lack of proper feeling; Guy said that what he chiefly objected to was the d.a.m.ned side the fellow put on; and Stella sat and frowned at the shut door. Observing this, Guy said: 'What's eating you, sister? I thought you were glad to see the little ray of suns.h.i.+ne?'

'I don't mind him,' said Stella impatiently. 'In fact, I'm grateful to him for creating a diversion. But I don't believe his hands wanted was.h.i.+ng.'

'What on earth are you drivelling about?' demanded Guy.

Stella looked at him for a moment, and then said curtly: 'Oh, nothing!' and got up, and went quickly out of the room, and ran upstairs.

Before she had reached the landing Randall was on his way down again. She stopped and looked up at him, her hand on the banisters.

Randall smiled, and came lightly down and flicked her cheek with one careless finger. 'Suspicious little Stella!' he said softly. 'You would like to know what I've been up to, my pet, wouldn't you?'

'Yes, I would,' said Stella slowly.

Just was.h.i.+ng my hands, darling, just was.h.i.+ng my hands!' said Randall.

An hour later he was back in his own flat, telephoning to Superintendent Hannasyde. 'Oh-er, Superintendent!' he said apologetically. 'Something I feel I must say to you. I'm so glad I caught you in.'

'What is it?' Hannasyde asked.

'The detective shadowing me,' said Randall plaintively. 'Could he be told not to wear brown boots with a blue suit, do you think?'

Chapter Ten.

'Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned!' said Sergeant Hemingway.

'Exactly,' said Hannasyde dryly, and picked up the paper, and once more read the notice on the front page.

HYDE.-On May 22nd, 1935, at a nursing-home, suddenly, JOHN HYDE, of 17 Gadsby Row, in his 50th year. No flowers by request.

The Sergeant scratched his nose. 'And what's more, it may be true, Chief,' he p.r.o.nounced. 'What does it say?-suddenly? There you are then. All the time we've been chasing round after him the poor fellow's been lying in hospital with appendicitis. No wonder we couldn't find him! Well, well, and now where are we?'

'Get on to the office of the paper, and find out who sent in that notice,' commanded Hannasyde rather irritably. 'And do try and keep your infernal imagination within bounds!'

The Sergeant shook his head sadly. 'Yes, I thought this case would get on our nerves before we were through with it,' he remarked, and went out before his superior had time to reply.

He came back some little time later, and said: 'Well, now I am going to surprise you, Super. That notice was sent in by General Sir Montague Hyde, of Crayly Court, Herts.'

'What?' exclaimed Hannasyde.

'Didn't know he'd got such cla.s.sy relations, did we?' said the Sergeant cheerfully.

'Who is General Sir Montague Hyde?' demanded Hannasyde.

The Sergeant consulted the slip of paper in his hand. 'Born 1871... eldest son of Sir Montague Hyde, 5th baronet... Educated Eton and Sand-'