“On his watch-chain,” repeated Randall, the smile fading from his lips.
Mr Brown, watching him, thought the look on his face downright ugly, and said uneasily: “It ain't my fault if you don't like it. I told you the truth, so help me, and that's more nor what I ought to have done. What's it worth—to stop me telling the same to the police?”
“I hardly think that you are anxious to confide in the police,” said Randall, “but it is worth—to me—exactly what I said I would pay for it.”
Mr Brown held out an eager hand for the note. A smile stole over his unprepossessing countenance. “You wanted to know mighty bad, didn't you? I hope you're satisfied, that's all.”
“Quite,” said Randall, and flicked the note into his hand.
After a swift glance at it to make sure that it was correct, Mr Brown thrust it into his pocket and cast another of his puzzled looks at Randall. He watched him put his notecase away and draw on one of his gloves, and suddenly said: “I ain't seen you before, have I?”
“I should think it very unlikely,” said Randall.
Mr Brown stroked his chin. “Funny thing, but the minute you come into the shop I got a feeling I had seen you somewhere.”
Randall paused with his hand stretched out to pick up his malacca cane from the counter, and let Mr Brown see his eyes. “Look again,” he said smoothly. “Have you seen me before?”
Mr Brown's gaze shifted under that curiously vivid, intent stare. “No, I don't know as how I have,” he said uncertainly. “Not to be sure, anyway. Just something in the cut of your jib seemed to strike me as being a bit familiar, that's all. No offence!”
Randall picked up his cane. “None at all,” he replied. “But you have not seen me before, Mr Brown, I can assure you. Nor are you very likely to see me again.”
Mr Brown gave him a knowing leer. “I can keep my mouth shut, don't you worry!” he said.
A smile which Mr Brown liked even less than the expression he had found ugly a few minutes before flitted across Randall's face. “No, I shan't worry,” he said, and walked with his graceful, untroubled gait out of the shop.
Detective Peel, observing him from the opposite side of the road, thought it worth his while to follow him at a discreet distance.
His report, made to Superintendent Hannasyde later in the day, interested the Superintendent considerably.
“Mr Randall Matthews,” he said slowly. “Yes, you did quite right to follow him. How long was he in the shop?”
“Matter of twenty-five minutes,” replied Peel. “Came walking down the street as though he didn't give a damn for anyone.”
“Yes, I think he would do that,” said Hannasyde. “It may, of course, have failed to dawn on him that the place was being watched.” He tapped the pencil he was holding on his desk. “I think we might keep Mr Randall Matthews under observation,” he said. “You couldn't hear what was said in the shop, I suppose?”
“No, I couldn't, Superintendent. It's a bit difficult, hanging round the entrance with so many people about,” replied Peel apologetically.
Hannasyde nodded. “Yes, I know. It doesn't matter. But I shall be interested to see what Mr Randall Matthews' next move is.”
However, Randall Matthews' next move was an unexceptionable one. On the following afternoon, arrayed in all the sombre elegance of a morning-coat, with a sleek top-hat set at an unsuitably rakish angle on his still sleeker black head, he motored down to Grinley Heath in a hired limousine to attend his uncle's funeral.
The service was held at the Parish Church, and there were very few mourners. Apart from the dead man's relatives, only the Rumbolds, Dr Fielding, and Mr Nigel Brooke, who was Guy's partner, attended it. Nigel Brooke, a tall young man with curly yellow hair and a profile which, because some misguided person had once told him it was Grecian, he was rather too much inclined to present to the world, explained confidentially to Dr Fielding that he had only put in an appearance because one liked to do the proper thing. “Speaking for myself,” said Mr Brooke, “I regard funerals as pure relics of barbarism. I daresay you feel the same.”
“I have never thought it worth while to consider the matter,” replied Fielding.
This was not encouraging, but Mr Brooke said in a thoughtful voice: “I am inclined to think that that point of view is extraordinarily indicative of the spirit of the age.”
“I shouldn't be at all surprised,” said Fielding.
“I am afraid,” said Mr Brooke, starting a fresh topic, “that dear old Guy feels all this very much.”
“It is hardly surprising that he should.”
Mr Brooke put his head on one side. “One is inclined to ascribe it more to an inherently artistic temperament though, than to any profound feeling of sorrow in his uncle's death.”
“I daresay.”
“After all, old Matthews was a pretty good stinker, wasn't he?” said Mr Brooke, momentarily abandoning his affectations.
The doctor made no reply to this, and after a slight pause, Mr Brooke suddenly remarked: “There is a woman here whose setting should be a mixture of horsehair and tubular steel.”
“What?”
“Ah, you think that a little too daring, I expect,” said Mr Brooke with a smile of superiority. “One ought never to be afraid of contrasts, however. I learned that lesson very early in my career, and believe me, I have often used the most startling anachronisms to obtain amazingly successful results.”
“I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,” said Fielding.
Mr Brooke's gaze rested dreamily on Mrs Lupton, who was just about to enter her car. “That woman,” he said simply. “Don't you feel it? One would resist the obvious temptation of red plush, of course.”
The doctor gave him a look of contemptuous dislike, and moved away.
The Matthews family were drifting out of the Churchyard to seek their various cars by this time, and Owen Crewe was anxiously trying to convey to his wife through the medium of silent grimace that he did not desire to accompany her to her father's house for tea.
Unfortunately Agnes was not very susceptible to messages thus conveyed, and instead of discovering an urgent need for their immediate return to town, she accepted Mrs Lupton's invitation, and said that she knew Owen would love to come. The scowl with which Owen greeted this interpretation of his wishes could not have been misread by the blindest wife, and Agnes at once said: “You don't mind, do you, darling? You did say you were going to take the rest of the day off, didn't you?”
“I want to get out of these clothes,” said Owen, with the air of one who has been taken against his will to a fancy-dress party.
“Oh no, you look so nice in them!” said his wife fondly.
“Well, I'm not like your pansy little cousin Randall, and I feel a fool in them,” said Owen Crewe.
Randall, who had succeeded in annoying both Mrs Lupton and Miss Matthews by pressing his Aunt Zoë's hand feelingly, and remarking in a voice of concern that he feared the painful nature of the occasion would prove too much for her nerves, had moved away to where the Rumbolds were waiting for their car to drive up. “How do you do?” he said. “An impressive sight, is it not?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” said Mrs Rumbold, who thought him a very smart, witty young man, and was prepared to be entertained.
“Merely the spectacle of my relatives assuming expression of decent grief,” said Randall.
“What things you do say, Mr Matthews! I'm sure they must feel it. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it, Ned?”
“Yes, I think it's rather unfair to assume that they none of them feel any regret,” replied Rumbold.
Randall raised his brows. “How long have you known my affectionate family?” he drawled.
Rumbold laughed. “Three years,” he answered.
“And your simple faith survives! I suppose you would be shocked if I ventured to ask which of my uncle's loving relatives is, in your mature judgment, the likeliest suspect?”