“Know how he made his money?”
“Oh, sort of financial punter, wasn't he? He had an office in the City, and I think played about with stocks and shares. Started life in a broker's office, I believe, and I suppose struck lucky.”
“We'll take a look at that office of his. Do you know anything about the rest of the family?”
“Nothing except what I saw when I went down to read the Will.”
“You're not being at all helpful,” complained Hannasyde. “What did you make of Randall Matthews?”
Giles tipped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Well, since you ask me, I can't say I took to him much,” he replied.
“Nor did I. Know anything about him?”
Giles shook his head. “Young man-about-town: not in my line of country. Are you interested in him?”
“I'm interested in anybody connected with this case. Hemingway says it's like pea-soup. It's this damned nicotine, Mr Carrington. It may have been swallowed, and the probability is that it wasn't. There was a bad scratch on the back of the deceased's left hand.”
“Borgia-stuff!” said Giles incredulously.
“Sounds like it, doesn't it? But one of our experts is of the opinion that the poison could have been absorbed that way. Well, the sister, Harriet Matthews, was the last person to be with Matthews on the night he died—though she didn't admit that to me. We can say, if you like, that she inflicted the scratch, but —”
“With a pair of poisoned nail-scissors,” interrupted Giles derisively. “Go on, I like to see you becoming romantic.”
Hannasyde smiled. “I know. But it's no joke, Mr Carrington. Suppose she inflicted the scratch, seemingly by accident, and then bathed it with lotion into which she'd dropped her poison?”
Just a moment,” said Giles. “Is Harriet Matthews the eccentric lady with the economy-mania?”
“That's the one.”
“Out of all your suspects what a choice to make! She wouldn't have the sense, let alone the knowledge.”
“Voluble and eccentric ladies aren't always so guileless as they seem, Mr Carrington. Not that I think it was she. I don't. But the trouble is there's no one I think it was. On the face of it the heir's the likeliest suspect. He lives high, probably beyond his income, and, if I'm not much mistaken, bets a lot. Clever fellow, and looks pretty coldblooded. What's more, he presented me with a detailed alibi which I don't expect to pick the smallest hole in. And I haven't, so far, a thing on him. He says he heard of his uncle's death through you. How did he take it?”
Giles reflected. “It was over the telephone, you know. Quite calmly, I think. I merely said that Matthews was dead, and added that there seemed to be some doubt about the cause of death, and that there was to be an autopsy.” He paused “He sounded distinctly annoyed about that, but I think one would be. No one likes a scandal in the home circle, after all.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't remember. Something about the incompetence of doctors, and that he'd better come round and see me.”
“Oh, he came to see you that day, did he? When?”
“Shortly before one. He was perfectly self-possessed. He came to arrange with me about reading the Will, and various other business matters.”
“He knew he was the heir, I suppose?”
“Oh yes! He's my fellow-executor.”
“Did he seem at all anxious to find out what had been happening down at Grinley Heath?”
“Not more than was natural. He wanted to know who was the fool who had started the murder-scare, but as I didn't know—”
“Who told him there was any question of murder? Did you?”
Giles looked at him. “No, I don't think I did. But it rather leaps to the mind when you hear there's to be a post-mortem, doesn't it? I suppose he assumed there was a suspicion of poisoning, same as I did. He didn't seem to me to set much store by it, though. He said he had no doubt that the various members of his family were running entirely true to type, and added that the temptation to go down and watch them making fools of themselves was too strong to be withstood. I believe he did go down to Grinley that afternoon.”
“I've no doubt,” said Hannasyde. “Very understandable that he should—and if there was any evidence at the Poplars waiting to be destroyed, even more understandable.”
“You sound a trifle peevish, my dear chap. Not like yourself.”
“Well, it's enough to make a saint swear, Mr Carrington: it really is! A man is poisoned on the evening of the 14th May. His own doctor finds natural causes, and is ready to sign the certificate, but one member of the family objects, so they think they'll have a post-mortem. The Divisional Surgeon makes no more of it than the family doctor, but the organs are sent up to the Home Office, as per regulations. No one at Grinley taking it seriously; no official action being taken. Result, it's five days before we get the case, during which time everyone connected with it has not only known that an inquiry was being conducted, but has also had plenty of time to dispose of whatever evidence there may have been. Dead man's room all nice and tidy, bottle of tonic providentially broken, everything cleared away.”
“Ah, I see!” smiled Giles. “You want the corpse discovered in situ, with the incriminating letter in the wastepaper basket, the glass (with traces of poison) on the table, and everything under lock and key until you arrive.”
Hannasyde gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, you'll admit it would be a lot easier to handle. By the way, you've got the dead man's keys, haven't you?”
“Yes, but I only took charge of them on Friday. Randall gave them to me, pending the result of the investigation.”
Hannasyde stared at him. “Thinks of everything, doesn't he? Very proper behaviour on the part of Mr Randall Matthews. And the rest of the family hates him.” He tapped his fingers on Giles' desk for a moment. “Get the Department to look into Mr Randall Matthews. Are you busy, Mr Carrington?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go with me to Gregory's office.”
Giles glanced at his watch. “All right, but I must be back at five. I've got an appointment.”
A taxi bore both men to a big block of flats in the City. During his lifetime Gregory Matthews had rented a single room on the fourth floor where he had apparently transacted his business. It was a small apartment, containing a desk, and a couple of leather chairs, a table with a typewriter on it, a large waste-paper basket, a filing-cabinet, and a safe. It was very tidy, and smelled stuffy from having been shut up.
“No torn-up letters here, Hannasyde,” Giles remarked. “One of those nice modern buildings where the charwoman lets herself in with a pass-key, and cleans the place each morning before you arrive.” He sat down at the desk, and began to inspect the keys on the ring he was holding. “What would you like first? Desk, safe, or cabinet?”
Hannasyde had picked up a diary from the table, and was looking through it. “I don't mind. Desk,” he said absently. “Parker and Snell—they sound as though they might be his brokers. Apparently he had an appointment with them on the 14th May. Doesn't tell us much.”
“Yes, they're his brokers,” said Giles, fitting a key into the top drawer of the desk. “Here you are.”
“Just a moment.” Hannasyde was turning the leaves of the diary backwards. “Practically no engagements recorded. Share prices jotted down each day. Seems to have had a catholic taste in investments… Monday 13th May: Lupton, 12.0 p.m.” He lowered the book. “Lupton? That's the brother-in-law. I wonder what he wanted to see him about?”
“Was Lupton the desiccated little man with the overpowering wife?” asked Giles.
“That's the fellow. Now why did Matthews make an appointment with him here when they lived in the same place? Might be useful to know that.”
Giles regarded him in some amusement. “You have a fearful and a wonderful mind, Hannasyde. I can think of a dozen reasons.”