“It wouldn't surprise me,” said the Inspector, who had taken an unreasoning dislike to Mrs Lupton, “if we found she did it, and was acting like this to put us off the scent.”
The Sergeant exchanged an indulgent glance with Hannasyde. “Bad psychology,” he said. “She's all right.”
“Wasting our time!” snorted the Inspector. “There wasn't a thing she could tell us we didn't know already. Don't you agree, Superintendent?”
Hannasyde, who had not been paying much attention, said: “Agree? Oh! No, I don't agree with either of you. I think she had more than a Feeling, and I think she did tell us several things.”
The Sergeant nodded. “I thought you were on to something,” he remarked.
“You were wrong,” said Hannasyde calmly. “But this Lupton woman, though unpleasant, is scrupulously honest. In the Matthews household we interviewed a number of people who were all frightened, and who therefore said whatever they thought would be safest. Mrs Lupton isn't afraid of me or of any other policeman, and she was rigidly determined not to make the smallest accusation against anyone. She isn't being spiteful; she's out for justice. Which makes what she did say quite valuable. When a woman like Miss Matthews says that her sister-in-law is equal to anything, I disbelieve her, just as I discount Mrs Matthews' delicate implication that Harriet would have liked to have seen her brother put quietly out of the way. But when an uncompromisingly honest woman like Mrs Lupton tells me that her sister-in-law will go to any lengths to get her own way, I begin to sit up and take notice. The people she suspects are Mrs Matthews, the boy Guy, and the doctor.”
“Sweeping sort of suspicion,” commented the Inspector.
“No, I don't think so,” said Hannasyde. “She ruled out the girl, Stella, and I got the impression that she dislikes that girl cordially. But she said positively that Stella would not have done such a thing, which to my mind gave a good deal of weight to her pronouncement that any one of the other three have it in them to commit murder. I know nothing about female intuition, Hemingway, but if Mrs Lupton suspected foul play it wasn't because she detected anything odd about her brother's body, but because she knew that the situation at the Poplars had been tense enough to end in murder. Which is what I wanted to find out.”
The Sergeant nodded. “Right, Chief.”
Inspector Davis was not so easily satisfied. “Yet, but what I'd like to know is, how did Matthews take that poison? It's worrying me a lot, that is, because so far we haven't discovered a blessed thing he swallowed that the others didn't, barring the tonic he may have had after dinner.”
“Guy Matthews might conceivably have dropped the poison into that whiskey-and-soda from a phial concealed in his hand,” suggested Hannasyde.
The Inspector gave a disparaging sniff:
“Don't you fret, Inspector,” said Hemingway. “The Chief's after something a bit more recondite. Am I right, Super?”
“More or less. Anyway, we'll go back to town now, and look up Randall Matthews.”
Parting from Inspector Davis at the Police Station, Hannasyde and his subordinate travelled back to London on the Underground Railway. Randall Matthews rented a flat in a road off St James's Street, but was not in at one o'clock, when the Superintendent called. His manservant, eyeing the police with disfavour, declined to hazard any opinion of the probable time of his master's return, but Hannasyde and his Sergeant, coming back at three o'clock, found a Mercedes car parked outside the house, and rightly conjectured that its owner was Mr Randall Matthews.
This time the manservant, instead of addressing them through the smallest possible opening of the front door, reluctantly held it wide for the Superintendent to pass through.
The two men were ushered into a small hall which was decorated in shades of grey, and left there while Benson went to inform his master of their arrival.
The Sergeant looked round rather dubiously, and scratched his chin with the brim of his bowler hat. “What you might call Arty,” he remarked. “Ever thought that decor is highly significant, Super? Take that divan.”
“What about it?” asked Hannasyde, glancing a little scornfully at the piece in question, which was wide, and low, and covered with pearl-grey velvet.
“Not sure,” replied the Sergeant. “If it had upwards of a dozen cushions with gold tassels chucked on it carelesslike I should have known what to think. But it hasn't. All the same, Super, we can write this bird down as having expensive tastes. Would you call the pictures oriental?”
“Chinese prints,” replied Hannasyde briefly.
“I wouldn't wonder,” agreed the Sergeant. “It all fits in with what I was thinking.”
The looking-glass door at one side of the hall opened at this moment, and Randall Matthews strolled towards them, holding Hannasyde's card between his finger and thumb.
“More decor,” muttered the Sergeant.
It could hardly have been by design, but Randall was dressed in a suit of pearl-grey flannel that harmonised beautifully with the background. He raised his eyes from the card, and said: “Ah, good afternoon, Superintendent! I might almost say, Welcome to my humble abode. Won't you come in?” He made a gesture towards the room he had come from. “Both of you, of course. You must introduce me to your friend.”
“Sergeant Hemingway,” said Hannasyde, his calm eyes slightly frowning.
“How do you do, Sergeant?” said Randall affably. “Ah, Benson, take the Sergeant's hat.”
The Sergeant, equal to this as to any other occasion and growing more bird-like with interest every moment, handed his hat to the servant, and followed Hannasyde into a room that looked out on to the street, and seemed, with the exception of its bookshelves, to be entirely composed of Spanish leather.
Randall picked up a box containing Russian cigarettes, and offered it to his visitors. It was declined, so he selected one for himself, and lit it, and waved his hand in the direction of two chairs. “But won't you sit down? And before we go any further, do tell me how my poor uncle was poisoned!”
Hannasyde raised his brows. “Did you then think that he had been poisoned, Mr Matthews? I understand that you described Mrs Lupton's suspicion as a canard.”
“I'm sure that must be correct,” agreed Randall. “It is very much the sort of thing I should unhesitatingly say of my dear Aunt Gertrude's pronouncements. But I have so much intuition, my dear Superintendent. Your genial presence convicts me of error. I am not at all ashamed to acknowledge my mistakes. I make very few.”
“You are to be congratulated,” commented Hannasyde dryly. “Your uncle was poisoned.”
“Yes, Superintendent, yes. You would not otherwise be here. Is it permitted that I should know how?”
“He died from nicotine poisoning,” replied Hannasyde.
“What a shame!” said Randall. “It sounds very common—almost vulgar. I think I will throw away the rest of my cigarette.”
“I don't propose to take up your time —”
“My valuable time,” interpolated Randall gently.
“—any longer than I need, Mr Matthews, but as I find that you are not only the heir to your uncle's property but also the head of the family, I thought it only right to call on you. It will be necessary for the police to go through the deceased's papers.”
“Ah, you want my uncle's solicitor,” said Randall. “I am sure you will like him.”
“I don't think I have his name,” Hannasyde said. “Perhaps you would be good enough —”
“Certainly,” said Randall. “His name is Carrington.” Hannasyde looked up quickly from his notebook.
“Carrington?”
“Giles Carrington. I think there are more of them, and I am sure I went to Adam Street to visit them.”
“Thank you,” said Hannasyde. “I know Mr Giles Carrington very well. Now, if you would answer one or two questions, Mr Matthews, I need not detain you. When did you last see your uncle?”