“The desire evinced by so many people of apparently normal intelligence of being informed of what they know very well already is a source of constant wonder to me,” remarked Randall. “However, I'm quite willing to oblige you if you're sure you want me to.”
Henry Lupton looked up at him, his own eyes strained and questioning. “What did your uncle tell you about me?” he demanded. “That's what I want to know! That Sunday before he died, when he asked you into his study. I might have known! I might have guessed he'd tell you!”
“You might, of course,” agreed Randall. “Did you suppose he wouldn't? He thought it would appeal to my sense of humour.”
“I've no doubt it did,” said Lupton bitterly.
“Up to a point,” said Randall. “Have we now finished this discussion?”
“No. I want to know—I insist on knowing what you mean to do!”
“What I mean to do?” repeated Randall, dropping the words out disdainfully one by one. “Is it possible—is it really possible that you imagine I am going to concern myself with your utterly uninteresting love-affairs?”
Lupton flushed, but his muscles seemed to relax. “I don't know. I'd believe anything of your family, anything! As for you, if you saw a chance to make mischief you'd take it!”
“In this case,” said Randall unpleasantly, “it affords me purer gratification to dwell upon the thought of my dear Aunt Gertrude duped and betrayed.”
“Your aunt doesn't suffer through it!”
“What a pity!” said Randall.
The baize-door at the back of the hall opened at this moment, and Miss Matthews came through carrying her replenished bowl of flowers. “Oh, Henry! Gertrude's gone,” she said. “And I must say, Randall, I think it was most uncalled-for, whatever it was you said to her. Not that I know what it was, for I don't, and I'm sure I don't want to. And if you mean to stay to lunch I do think you might have let me know, because whatever your Aunt Zoë's ideas of housekeeping may be mine are different, and there won't be enough.”
“Fortunately,” said Randall, “I have no such intention.”
“Well, I hope I am not inhospitable,” said Miss Matthews, slightly mollified, “but I must say I'm glad to hear it. There are quite enough people to feed in this house without adding to them. I've already had to make it plain to Zoë that I'm not going to have her friends coming here to meals all day and every day, and behaving as though the drawing-room existed just for them to play Bridge in. I know very well what her idea is, and I'm not going to put up with it! The house is just as much mine as it is hers. More so, if everyone had their rights, and so is the car, and I won't have it used without her even asking me if I want it!… Yes, Zoë I am talking about you, and I don't care who hears me!”
Mrs Matthews who, possibly attracted by her sister-in-law's voice, had come out of the library, said sweetly: “Were you, dear? Well, you can talk about me as much as you like, if you want to.”
“I shall,” said Miss Matthews. “And I hope you heard what I said!”
Mrs Matthews gave her an indulgent smile. “No, dear, I'm afraid I didn't. I came to remind you that I shall want the car this afternoon, if you are sure it is quite convenient to you.”
“Well, it isn't,” said Miss Matthews, with ill-concealed triumph. “Pollen has taken it to be decarbonised.”
Mrs Matthews' smile faded, and a certain rigidity stole over her face. After a slight pause she said, carefully polite: “My dear Harriet, surely you knew that I have an appointment to have my hair done this afternoon? I distinctly remember telling you about it, and asking whether you wanted the car yourself. Surely the car might have been decarbonised another day?”
“Pollen said it ought to be done,” replied Miss Matthews, obstinately.
Mrs Matthews compressed her lips. There was a distinctly un-Christian light in her eyes, but she said smoothly: “I am sure you did it for the best, Harriet, but in future perhaps, it would be wiser if we consulted one another before giving quite such arbitrary orders. Don't you agree?”
“No, I don't!” snapped Miss Matthews, and walked off to put her flowers down in the drawing-room.
Randall watched her go, and glanced down at Mrs Matthews. “My poor Aunt Zoë, do you find life very trying?” he said softly.
She was looking after her sister-in-law, but at Randall's words she turned. She met his cynical eyes, and said without a trace of annoyance in her voice: “No, Randall, not at all. When you reach my age you will have learned not to judge people harshly, my dear boy. I am very, very fond of your Aunt Harriet, and all those little idiosyncrasies which you young people are so impatient of mean just nothing to me. You should always try to look beneath the surface, and remember that when people do things that are not very kind there may be a very good reason for it.”
“I am silenced,” bowed Randall.
She came to the foot of the stairs, and laid her hand on his arm for a moment as she passed him. “Try to be more tolerant, Randall dear,” she said thrillingly. “It is always such a mistake to condemn people's little foibles. One should try to understand, and to help them.”
She gave his arm a faint squeeze, and went on up the stairs. Randall looked anxiously at his sleeve, smoothed it, and said: “After that I feel that anything else would be in the nature of an anti-climax. I shall go home.”
“Your aunt is a very sweet woman,” Henry Lupton said warmly. “I admire her more than I can say.”
“So do I,” said Randall. “I always have.”
“And I think you might at least refrain from sneering at her!”
“That,” said Randall, “is the second time today I have been accused of sneering at my clever Aunt Zoë. I am quite guiltless, believe me. In fact, my admiration for her is growing by leaps and bounds.”
Henry Lupton stared at him suspiciously, but Randall only gave a tantalising smile, and walked across the hall to pick up his hat and gloves. “I suppose you'll come down for the Inquest?” Lupton said.
Randall yawned. “If nothing more amusing offers, I might,” he answered. “Not if it is going to be held at some unearthly hour of the morning, of course. Convey my respectful farewells to my aunts if you see them again.” With which casual recommendation he strolled out of the house, leaving his uncle half-indignant and half-relieved.
Contrary to the expectations of his relatives he did not put in an appearance at the Inquest next morning, a circumstance which caused his three aunts to form a whole-hearted if brief alliance. Mrs Lupton supposed him to be ashamed to look her in the face, but considered that decency should have compelled him to be present; Miss Matthews read in his absence a deliberate slight to his uncle's memory; and Mrs Matthews, more charitable, feared that there was a callous streak in his nature, due, no doubt, to his youth.
The other members of the family all attended the Inquest. Even Owen Crewe came, though reluctantly. Agnes, looking brightly cheerful, but speaking in the hushed tones she considered suitable to the occasion, explained audibly to her mother that she had had quite a fight with Owen to get him to come, but had felt that he really ought to, if only to support her.
“I cannot see what the affair has to do with either of us,” said Owen in the disagreeable voice of one dragged unwillingly from his work.
“I suppose you will permit Agnes to feel some concern in her uncle's death?” said Mrs Lupton austerely.
Owen, who never embarked on an argument with his mother-in-law, merely replied: “I can see no reason why I should be called upon to waste an entire morning over it,” and moved away to a seat as far removed from her as possible. When he discovered that Randall was not present he gave a short laugh, and said: “Wise man!” the only effect of which was to make his wife say with unimpaired jollity that Owen was always cross in the mornings.
Mrs Rumbold, beside whom Owen had seated himself, said in a confidential voice: “It is kind of horrid, isn't it? I mean, knowing poor Mr Matthews, and all.”