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.
Chapter Four
There were three people in the library. One was a middle-aged man, with grizzled hair, and eyes deep-set in a square, good-humoured countenance; the second was a thin man with a clipped moustache, and a very thin neck; the third was Dr Fielding. As Miss Matthews entered the room, clinging to her nephew's arm, the doctor stepped forward, and said in a grave voice: “Miss Matthews, I am sorry to say that things are more serious than I had supposed. This is Superintendent Hannasyde, of Scotland Yard; and this,” he added, indicating the man with the moustache, “is Inspector Davis, from the Police Station here.”
Miss Matthews looked at the Superintendent much as she might have looked at a boa-constrictor, and said Good-morning in a frightened whisper. The local Inspector she ignored.
“Good morning,” Hannasyde said pleasantly. “Inspector Davis and I have come to ask you one or two questions about your brother's death.”
“You surely aren't going to tell us that he really was poisoned?” exclaimed Guy. “I don't believe it! Why on earth should anyone want to poison him?”
Hannasyde glanced towards him. “I don't know, Mr Matthews? That is one of the things I've come to find out.”
“But it's incredible!” Guy declared. “I simply can't believe it!”
“I'm afraid there's no doubt, Guy,” interposed Fielding. “The analysts discovered nicotine.”
Guy blinked. “Nicotine? But he didn't smoke!”
“So Dr Fielding has been telling me,” replied Hannasyde.
Miss Matthews found her voice. “Then it couldn't have been the duck!” she said.
“The duck?” repeated Hannasyde a little blankly.
“Yes, because if there had been any poison in that we should all be dead! And in any case I have the bill for two lamb cutlets, and anyone will tell you that they were ordered for my brother, even though he didn't eat them.”
“Miss Matthews was afraid that the roast duck which her brother ate that evening might have caused his death,” explained the doctor.
“I see,” said Hannasyde. “No, it could hardly have been the duck, Miss Matthews. Can you remember what else your brother ate or drank on the night he died?”
She began to enumerate the dishes which had appeared for dinner, but he stopped her. “No, later than that, Miss Matthews. Did he take anything on going to bed? A cup of Ovaltine, perhaps, or—”
“He couldn't bear anything with malt in it,” said Miss Matthews positively. “Often and often I've begged him to try it, because he didn't sleep very well, but he never would listen to advice, not even when he was a little boy.”
“Did he take anything at all for his insomnia?” Hannasyde asked.
“Oh, it wasn't as bad as that!” said Miss Matthews. “In fact, it's my belief he slept a lot better than he thought he did.”
Hannasyde turned his head towards the doctor, and raised his brows in a mute question.
Fielding said: “I prescribed nothing. He may occasionally have taken aspirin. I don't know.”
“No, that I'm sure he did not,” said Miss Matthews. “He didn't approve of drugs.”
“Then between dinner and bedtime he didn't, to your knowledge, take anything at all? No drink of any sort? A whiskey-and-soda, for instance, or—”
“Oh, that sort of thing!” said Miss Matthews. “He often had a whiskey-and-soda about half an hour before he went to bed. Not always, you know, but quite often. We have a tray brought into the drawing-room at ten o'clock. I myself think it's entirely unnecessary, and simply encourages young people to sit up late, drinking and smoking, and wasting the electricity.”
“Do you remember if your brother had a whiskey-and-soda, or any other kind of drink, on Tuesday evening? Perhaps you can help me, Mr Matthews?”
“I was just trying to remember,” said Guy. “I don't think—”
“Yes, he did,” said Miss Matthews suddenly. “Speaking to you reminded me of it, Guy. He had a small whiskey, and he said that when he asked for a small one he didn't mean he wanted it drowned in soda. And you said the syphon was rather "up." Don't you remember?”
“Was that the night he died?” asked Guy, frowning.
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“Did you pour out his drink for him, Mr Matthews?”
“Yes. I often did,” Guy answered.
“At about what time did he have the whiskey?”
“Oh, I don't know! The usual time, I think. Round about half-past ten.”
“Do you know when he went up to bed?”
“No, I was in the billiard-room with my sister.”
“My brother always went up to his room at eleven, unless we had visitors,” said Miss Matthews. “We were all brought up to keep regular hours in my family, though I must say Gregory used to waste a lot of time pottering about his room before he got into bed.”
“You don't know what he did after he went upstairs, or when he actually got into bed?”
Miss Matthews was inclined to be affronted.
“Certainly not! I was not in the habit of spying on him!”
“I wasn't suggesting anything like that, Miss Matthews,” replied Hannasyde peaceably. “You might have heard him moving about in his room.”
“Oh no, this house is very well built, and, besides, my room isn't next to his.”
“I see. Who did sleep next to Mr Matthews?”
“Well, my sister-in-law, in a way, but there's a bathroom in between,” explained Miss Matthews. Hannasyde looked at Guy. “At what hour did you go up to bed, Mr Matthews?”
“Haven't an idea,” said Guy carelessly. “Sometime between half-past eleven and twelve, I should think.”
“Did you notice whether the light was still on in your uncle's room?”
“No, I'm afraid I didn't My sister might know. She went up at the same time.”
“Yes, I should like to have a talk with Miss—Miss Stella Matthews,” nodded Hannasyde, consulting his notebook. “And with Mrs Matthews too, if you please.”
“My mother doesn't get up till after breakfast, but I'll go and tell her,” volunteered Guy, and left the room.
Mrs Matthews was doing her hair at the dressing-table when her son knocked on the door. She smiled at him as he came in, and said: “Well, darling, not gone off to work yet?”