“Ah, good-morning, Mr Carrington!” cooed a voice from the stairs. Mrs Matthews had made her appearance, and bestowed a gracious smile on Giles, and a more formal one on the Superintendent. “Such a lovely morning, isn't it? Dear Gertrude! What a surprise! And Henry, too!”
Miss Matthews eyed her with smouldering resentment. “Well, you're down very early, Zoë!” she said. “Quite remarkable! Of bourse, none of us can guess why. Oh, no!”
“Perhaps it was not quite wise of me,” agreed Mrs Matthews. “But on a day like this one feels glad to be alive.” Her smile was once more directed towards Giles. I'm afraid they will tell you that I am rather a hopeless old crock, Mr Carrington.”
“If you mean me, Zoë,” said Mrs Lupton witheringly, “I should not tell Mr Carrington anything of the sort. I do not propose to discuss you with him at all, but were I to do so I should not describe you as a hopeless crock, but as a malade imaginaire. Mr Carrington, I believe you are in charge of my brother's keys. Kindly come this way.”
Mrs Matthews gave a shudder. “All these sordid details! I suppose it has to be.”
“Yes, I'm afraid it has,” said Giles in his pleasant way.
“If anyone has a right to object it is I, and certainly not my sister-in-law!” snapped Miss Matthews. “Not that I do object. Why should I?”
At this moment Randall Matthews walked into the house. Apparently he was in time to overhear his aunt's remarks, for he said as though he had been taking part in the conversation: “No one has any right to object. Dear me, what can have brought my dear Aunt Gertrude here, I wonder?”
“You don't know what we were talking about!” said Miss Matthews angrily.
“No, but I feel sure my answer was the right one,” replied Randall. His gaze returned to Mrs Lupton. “You are not unexpected, my dear aunt, but, believe me, superfluous.”
“I shall not pretend to be ignorant of your meaning, Randall,” announced Mrs Luton. “In your eyes I've no doubt I am superfluous, but I suppose I am concerned at least as much as you are with my brother's death. If light is shed by his private papers I expect to be told of it.”
“If so singular a phenomenon occurs the whole world shall be told of it,” promised Randall. “Carrington, you have the key to Bluebeard's chamber. Do come and open it!”
A storm of protest broke out at this piece of flippancy. Without paying the least heed to it Randall conducted Giles and Hannasyde to his uncle's study, and waited unconcernedly while the key was fitted into the lock.
As one making civil conversation Hannasyde said: “I'm sorry the ladies should be distressed about this, Mr Matthews. These things are always rather painful for the rest of the family.”
Randall's eyes flickered to his face. “Well, you never know, do you?” he said. “Lots of little things in our lives we should prefer to bury in decent oblivion.”
“Such as, Mr Matthews?”
“I haven't seen my uncle's correspondence yet,” replied Randall sweetly.
Giles turned the key in the wards, and pushed open the door. They went into the study, a square room with a Turkey carpet, and solid furniture. Randall strolled to the window, and opened it, and remained there, his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders propped against the wall. He evinced no interest in the discoveries made by Hannasyde, which were not, indeed, of an interesting nature. There were some bills, many receipts, several typewritten letters referring to Guy Matthews' future in Brazil, and one brief note from Henry Lupton, dated 13th May. Giles, finding it, handed it to Hannasyde without comment.
It seemed to have been written in haste, and began abruptly: “Further to our conversation of even date, I must see you again before doing anything. I trust you have by this time thought better of it, and warn you you will have cause to regret it if you drive me to take desperate action.”
Hannasyde read this through, and was about to fold it up when Randall moved away from the window, and came forward. “Ah, do you mind?” he murmured, and took the letter out of his hand.
“It is of no particular moment,” Hannasyde said, a little shortly.
“I expect that was why you were interested,” said Randall in his most dulcet voice. He read the letter, and gave it back. “Dramatic little man,” he said.
“Do you know to what this letter refers, Mr Matthews?”
“Do you?” smiled Randall.
“Yes, Mr Matthews, I think I do.”
“Then why ask me?” inquired Randall. He glanced down at the drawer Giles had pulled out. “How very disappointing! I'm afraid my uncle must have destroyed his more lurid correspondence.”
The drawer held an untidy collection of oddments. Hannasyde turned over a packet of labels, disclosing a pair of horn-rimmed sun-glasses underneath, a scattering of paper-clips, and a tube of seccotine. For the rest there was a quantity of stamp-paper, some sealing wax, a pen-knife, a bottle of red ink, and a roll of adhesive tape. These articles the Superintendent turned out on to the desk, but there was nothing hidden under them.
Randall was looking at the heterogeneous collection, a slight frown between his eyes.
“The usual odds-and-ends drawer,” said Giles, beginning to put the things back.
Randall's eyes lifted. “As you say,” he agreed politely. “It is all very disheartening.”
The remaining drawers were equally barren of interest. Giles had just closed the last of them when a gentle knock fell on the door, and Henry Lupton looked deprecatingly into the room. “I hope I don't intrude?” he said. “The fact is, my wife would like to know—We only looked in, you see, just to inquire how things were going, and time presses, you know. So if we are not needed—?” He left the end of the sentence unfinished, and looked from Hannasyde to Giles, and back again.
Hannasyde replied:. “Will you come in, Mr Lupton? As a matter of fact, there are one or two questions I want to ask you.”
Henry Lupton, though he closed the door, did not advance farther into the room. He said hurriedly: “Oh, of course! I should be only too glad if there were anything I can answer, but really, you know, I'm as much in the dark as anyone. A most incomprehensible affair! I was only saying so to my wife last night. I was never so shocked in my life as when I heard of it.”
Randall took out his cigarette-case. “Don't overdo it,” he said, his smile remarkably like a sneer.
Hannasyde turned his head. “I don't think I need keep you any longer, Mr Matthews.”
“I rather fancy that you may discover a need for me,” returned Randall, flicking open his cigarette-lighter. “I may, of course, be wrong, but—no, I'm not wrong.”
The door had opened again, this time without any preliminary warning, and Mrs Lupton sailed into the room. “May I ask what is going on in here?” she said in tones of considerable displeasure. “You are perfectly well aware that I have a busy morning before me, Henry. I must say I should have thought you had time to have delivered my message twice over by now.” She bent her magisterial frown on Hannasyde. “Unless my presence is required I am now leaving,” she announced.
“Certainly,” said Hannasyde. “I want, however, to have a few words with your husband, if you will excuse us for a minute or two.”
“With my husband?” repeated Mrs Lupton. “And pray what have you to say to my husband, Superintendent?”
Henry Lupton, who was looking rather sickly, said: “Well, you see, my dear, the—the Superintendent wants to have a word in private with me, if—if you don't mind.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs Lupton. “I have always understood a husband and wife to be one person.” She again addressed Hannasyde. “You may speak quite freely in front of me, Superintendent. My husband and I have no secrets from each other.”
“It is not a question of secrets, Mrs Lupton,” replied Hannasyde. “It is merely that I prefer —”
“If you have anything to ask my husband, you may ask it in my presence,” interrupted Mrs Lupton. “No doubt I shall be a good deal more competent to answer anything relevant to the affairs of this house than he.”