“I am glad,” said. Stella. “Of course, you've taken such an interest in my progress, haven't you? I expect, if I only knew it, all your visits to the Poplars this last year have been really to see me.”
“Well, I imagine you don't suppose I came to see your mother, do you?”
Stella blinked at him. “You came to see uncle!”
“Good God!” said Randall. He took her arm above the elbow, and propelled her towards the door. “Not one of your intellectual days, my love. Let us go in to lunch.”
Chapter Eleven
Stella drove herself home to Grinley Heath, profoundly meditating on her cousin Randall's astonishing words. She had received them with surprise and suspicion, and had consequently assumed a defensive, unapproachable attitude. Randall had made no attempt to pursue the subject, but had taken her in to luncheon, and regaled her on lobster a la Newburgh, and an excellent Chablis. Stella, who had eaten no meals away from the Poplars since her uncle's death, frankly enjoyed herself, and managed to forget the troubles clustering about the family until coffee was brought into the room. Some chance words of Randall's recalled them to her then, and her face clouded, and she said with a sigh that it was beastly having murders in the family, because it was like a black cloud hanging over one.
“Everybody suspects everybody else,” she said. “And though uncle was horrid to people, it isn't any better in any way now that he's dead. I mean, take me, for instance. Uncle made it practically impossible for me to marry Deryk while he was alive, and that was beastly, but as soon as he died and I could marry Deryk, it all started to go wrong.”
“Now please don't fall into a sickening mood of selfirity,” said Randall dampingly. “You have been a charming companion during lunch, and not one thought of your late swain has crossed your head. You are not in (lie least heartbroken, so it is no use trying to get me to utter facile expressions of sympathy. I am not even remotely sorry for you.”
“I have eaten your salt,” said Stella with dignity, “so I can't say what I should like to.”
“Don't let that deter you, my love. I have eaten salt—and very little else—at the Poplars, but it has not so far affected my power of speech.”
Stella watched him make the coffee, and said: “Well, I wasn't pitying myself, if you want to know. All the same, it gives one a jolt to discover that a person you—you thought you could utterly depend on has—well, feet of clay.”
Randall removed the spirit-lamp from under the machine, and transferred his gaze to Stella's face for a moment. “Did you really think your amorous doctor would prove a tower of strength in adversity? How trusting girls are!”
“The trouble is there isn't anyone we can turn to,” Stella said. “Uncle Henry is no use, and Guy isn't old enough, besides being—well, anyway, he's not the type. And Mr Rumbold's all very well, but he isn't like someone in the family; and Owen thinks the whole thing is bad form, and doesn't want to be mixed up in it.”
“And Randall is a snake in the grass, and would only sneer at you,” said Randall, stirring the coffee in the top of the machine.
Stella looked faintly startled. “You would too,” she said. “I wasn't thinking about you, though.”
“Another of your little errors, darling. You had better start thinking about me. I am now the head of this lamentable family.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“Oh, quite a lot,” said Randall. “As head of the family I propose to see this thing through.”
“How nice of you!” said Stella. “That ought to help a lot. I expect if the police take it into their heads to arrest any of us you'll float in like a fairy godmother and clear up the whole case?”
“Not if they arrest Aunt Gertrude,” said Randall. He poured out the coffee, and handed one cup to Stella. “For you I might.”
“Give yourself up as the murderer, I should think,” said Stella scornfully.
“Who knows?” said Randall. “But don't you worry, my sweet: I shan't have to. This little murder-case isn't going to be solved.”
“But I want it to be solved!” Stella said.
“Possibly,” replied Randall. “But I don't.”
More he refused to say, but quite firmly turned the subject. Stella left his flat shortly after two o'clock, and drove home, pondering his words. She refrained from telling anyone at the Poplars what her errand to town had been; in fact, when closely interrogated by Miss Matthews in a spirit of rampant curiosity, she said unblushingly that she had lunched with a school-friend. Miss Matthews, sniffing, said that she should have thought Stella might have refrained from gallivanting up to town the very day after her uncle's funeral.
Dinner was enlivened by the presence of Mrs Lupton who, as her husband was detained in town, announced her intention of coming to the Poplars, and arrived at a quarter-to-eight in a dress of rustling black silk, and found fault with every course that was set before her. She had some justification, since Miss Matthews, now that her brother's wrath could no longer descend on her, had embarked on a campaign of the most ruthless economy.
“Let me tell you, Harriet,” said Mrs Lupton, “that if you think to deceive me by covering things up with a thick sauce you are mistaken. This fish is Cod.”
Mrs Matthews sighed, and remarked in a reminiscent voice: “I must say, when one remembers how particular dear Gregory was about what he ate —”
“Instead of remembering Gregory's tastes you would be better employed, my dear Zoë, in doing your share of the housekeeping,” interrupted Mrs Lupton. “Harriet never could order a meal.”
By the time Mrs Matthews had regretted that her wretched health prevented her from undertaking such an arduous duty, and Miss Matthews had declared that nothing would induce her to hand the reins over to her sister-in-law, the next course had arrived, a leg of lamb, which Mrs Lupton at once detected to be foreign. The sweet escaped criticism, but some sardines served up on toast as a savoury called forth a severe rebuke. Mrs Lupton after one mouthful, pushed her plate away and said that it was a false economy to buy cheap brands of sardines. Miss Matthews, seeing the savoury declined by the rest of the family, fiercely attacked her own, and said that there was nothing wrong with it at all.
In the drawing-room after dinner the three elder ladies maintained a sort of guerrilla warfare. Guy escaped to the library and Stella went early to bed, wondering whether, if she sold it, her car would realise enough money to enable her to leave the Poplars.
At breakfast next morning Guy was more cheerful than he had been since his uncle's death, and to his sister's relief announced his intention of resuming work on Monday. “Because it's obvious to me,” he said, “that nothing more is going to happen. It's just going to fizzle out.”
“I can't make out what the police are doing,” remarked Stella. “They seem to have stopped haunting the house. You don't suppose they've given it up, do you?”
“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Guy. “I don't blame them, either.”
“Somehow I don't think we're through with it,” Stella said. “There's one thing that rather puts the wind up me. Randall knows something.”
“Knows what?” Guy said, looking quickly up from the newspaper.
“He didn't say. But —” She broke off. “I rather think the police have got their eye on him.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“No one. I just do know.” She heard her aunt's step in the hall, and frowned at Guy, who had opened his mouth to question her further. “Not now! Aunt Harriet's coming.”
Miss Matthews entered the room with a complaint on her lips. Someone had forgotten to open the bathroom window after having a bath, and the room reeked of scent.
“Sorry: my new bath-salts, I expect,” said Stella.
“It is to be hoped you don't marry a poor man,” said Miss Matthews. “I must say, I should have thought you could have found something better to squander your allowance on than your personal appearance. However, no doubt I am wrong. I'm sure I never expect anyone to listen to what I have to say.”