“I don't know about itching, exactly, but I certainly ought to go,” said Giles, glancing at his watch. “I'm glad I don't leave Lupton in the role of Chief Suspect,” he added with a twinkle. “I'm sorry for the poor wretch.”
“Oh, he's a suspect all right,” Hannasyde answered. “I shall have to check up closely on him. But it's too clever, Mr Carrington. If Lupton did it, it must have been on the spur of the moment, and because he was desperate. Well, I may be wrong, but it doesn't look like that to me. It's been carefully planned, this murder, down to the very poison that was used. The ordinary man doesn't hit on a thing like nicotine on the spur of the moment.”
“I see. You think research is indicated.”
“I do. Research, and a cool, clever brain,” said Hannasyde, putting his pocket-book away, and moving across the thick carpet to the door. He opened it, and nearly collided with Miss Matthews. “I beg your pardon!”
She was holding a bowl of flowers between her hands, and said in her hurried way: “Oh, what a start you gave me, Superintendent! Just going to replenish my flowers. I always do it in the cloakroom, because it makes such a mess.”
She ended on one of her breathless, inane laughs, and sped on through the baize-door at the end of the passage. The two men's eyes met. “She was listening,” said Giles softly.
“Yes,” replied Hannasyde non-commitally. “She has a reputation for being extremely inquisitive.”
Chapter Seven
Randall, leaving the study in the wake of his aunt, did not follow her to the library, where he could ear her voice raised in denunciation of himself, but strolled instead to the foot of the stairs, and after a brief glance round the empty hall went up, not hurriedly, but soft-footed. There was no one on the upper landing. The first door led into Gregory Matthews' bedroom, and was not locked. Randall turned the handle, and went in, and quietly closed the door behind him.
The room, which was large, and gloomy with mahogany, had the unfriendly look that uninhabited apartments wear. The bed was draped by a dust-sheet; the windows were shut; and the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, and even the mantelpiece were swept bare of all personal belongings.
Randall glanced about him, and presently moved towards the wardrobe, a huge, triple-doored piece that took up nearly the whole of one wall. Gregory Matthews' clothes were neatly arranged in it, but they did not seem to concern Randall, for after a brief survey he closed the doors again, and went across to the dressing-table. There was nothing in either of its drawers, except a watch and chain, and a box containing cuff-links and studs, and the chest at the opposite side of the room contained only piles of underclothing.
Randall shrugged, and walked over to the door which communicated with his uncle's bathroom. Here the same barrenness met his gaze; not so much as a razor strop had been left to remind him of his uncle's erstwhile presence. He went at once to where a small medicine chest hung, but it was quite empty. He slowly shut it, and turned away towards the door leading out on to the landing. He opened it, and stepped out of the room just as Stella came running lightly up the stairs.
She checked at sight of him, and stared, a frown slowly gathering on her brow. Randall met the stare with his faint, bland smile, and closed the bathroom door behind him. “Good-morning, my precious,” he said.
She remained with her hand still resting on the big wooden knob at the head of the banisters. “What were you doing in there?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
“Just looking over the scene of the crime,” he answered. He held out his open cigarette-case. “Will you smoke, my love?”
“No, thanks. What were you looking for?”
He raised his brows. “Did I say I was looking for something?”
“I know you were.”
“Well, whatever it was I was disappointed,” said Randall. “Someone has been busy.”
“Aunt Harriet turned everything out the day uncle died,” Stella said shortly.
Randall lit a cigarette, and said in a meditative tone: “I often wonder whether Aunt Harriet is the fool she appears to be, or not”
“Good heavens, you don't think she did it to destroy evidence, do you?” exclaimed Stella, unable to believe in such forethought.
“I am quite unable to make up my mind on that point,” Randall replied. “Cast your little feather-weight of a brain backward, my sweet. What did our dear Aunt Harriet take out of uncle's medicine-chest?”
“Oh, I don't know! All sorts of things. Corn-plaster, and iodine, and Eno's Fruit Salts.”
“And uncle's tonic, of course,” said Randall, watching the blue smoke rise up from the end of his cigarette.
“No, that was broken. New bottle, too.”
He raised his eyes rather quickly. “Broken,” he repeated. “Was it indeed? Well, well! and who broke it, my little one?”
“No one. Uncle must have left it on the shelf over the washbasin, and the wind blew it over.”
“Any questions asked about it?” inquired Randall.
“Do you mean by the police? Yes, I think so. Not to me.”
Randall sighed. “I wonder who regrets Aunt Gertrude's officiousness most,” he said. “The Matthews family, or Superintendent Hannasyde?”
“I don't know, but talking of Aunt Gertrude, what on earth have you been saying to her? She says she's never been so insulted in her life.”
“I shouldn't think she has,” said Randall.
“What did you say?” persisted Stella.
“Merely that if I were married to her I should keep several mistresses,” Randall replied.
She could not help giving a gurgle of laughter, but she said: “Well, really, I do think that's about the limit! It's about the rudest thing you could say.”
“I couldn't think of anything ruder at the time,” acknowledged Randall. “It got rid of her most successfully.”
“You can't go about being filthily rude to people just to get rid of them!”
“I can and do,” he replied imperturbably.
“You do, yes,” Stella said hotly. “You're the most poisonous-tongued person I know!”
“So you have often informed me,” bowed Randall. He regarded her with a curious smile. “You can't bear me, can you, little Stella? What have I done?”
“Nothing. You don't,” Stella said contemptuously. “You just say spiteful things, and drift about like a lounge lizard. I used to hate you when we first came to live with uncle.”
“My darling, you still do.”
“I don't think twice about you,” said Stella. “You were horrid to me when I was a kid —”
“A gawky, clumsy flapper,” murmured Randall, closing his eyes. “I remember.”
“I wasn't!”
“Also callow, ignorant, and without grace.”
She reddened. “All girls are at that age!”
“Possibly, but I see no reason why I should be kind to them.”
“You're not kind to anyone. You were beastly to Guy, and you still are.”
“I am but human, my love. If he will rise to my bait, bait he shall have.”
“I wouldn't mind betting you used to pull flies' wings off when you were a boy,” said Stella with deep loathing.