“One moment,” interposed Randall. “I like to have things clear. Does the sardine play a major part in the story? Because if so I should wish to have its role carefully explained to me.”
“No, it was the savoury at dinner, that's all.”
“If it was really all, Aunt Harriet's economy must have reached a staggering pitch,” commented Randall.
Stella gave a spurt of laughter, but became instantly sober again. “Randall, you mustn't joke. It isn't funny. And it's beastly of you to laugh at—at a thing like this.”
“Acquit me, darling. I only wanted to raise a laugh out of you.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”
He smiled. “Such a solemn Stella. I don't like it. But go on with this entrancing story.”
“Well, there isn't much more. Apparently she felt worse after breakfast, and went up to tell Mummy she wasn't well. Mummy put her back to bed, and gave her some dope, and—and she felt sleepy. And Mummy looked into her room about twelve o'clock, only she seemed to be fast asleep, so Mummy didn't disturb her, and at lunch-time I went up to her, and—and she was dead.”
Randall shot the car forward past a lorry, and slackened speed again. “And now tell me all the bits you've left out,” he said.
“I—I haven't, really. Except that I can't help feeling that the police—think Mummy had something to do with it.”
“They do not seem to be alone in that belief,” remarked Randall.
“What do you mean?” said Stella.
“If you are not afraid that your sainted parent had a hand in this, what are you worrying about, my love? Tell me the whole truth!”
“I'm not afraid she did it! I'm not, I tell you! I'm only afraid that it's going to look black against her, and I don't know what to do. She washed up the glass she gave the medicine in, and she gave orders no one was to go into aunt's room. It was what anyone would have done, Randall! but the police—made it sound fishy, and Mummy—I think Mummy saw that it did, because she said that she couldn't remember who'd washed the glass, and it was obvious that she did remember. And she kept on saying she was sure aunt had had a stroke, and—and finding reasons for it. She was worst with Deryk, but—but I don't trust him, and I'm afraid he may have told the police how she fought against having a post-mortem. Supposing they arrest her?”
“Supposing we wait and see whether Aunt Harriet was poisoned or not?” countered Randall.
“Randall, why won't you tell what you know?” said Stella imploringly. “Deryk wouldn't have said that if he hadn't been pretty sure. And if she was poisoned, don't you see that Mummy, or Guy (or me, I suppose), are the only people who had any motive at all?”
“I do,” said Randall. “But if you would all of you contrive to keep your heads, you may yet escape the gallows.”
“Don't!” she said sharply. “I thought at first you were going to be decent, and take it seriously. I might have known you'd only sneer!”
“Strange as it may seem to you, my love, I am taking it extremely seriously.”
She looked curiously at him. “Were you fond of Aunt Harriet?”
“Not in the least. But I infinitely preferred her alive to dead.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Because, my dear Stella, by dying Aunt Harriet has created a damnably awkward situation!” he answered.
Chapter Thirteen
The rest of Sunday passed uncomfortably. Randall left the Poplars soon after lunch, Mrs Matthews retired to rest, and her children, finding it impossible to occupy themselves indoors, went for a walk. Mrs Matthews remarked three times during the course of the evening that she felt quite lost without her sister-in-law, and when Guy, whose nerves were badly frayed, said caustically that he had been under the impression that life under the same roof with Harriet had become insupportable to her, she read him a lecture on the folly of exaggeration, and went to bed proclaiming herself not angry, but merely hurt. Stella then took her brother to task for having started a quarrel, and Guy, announcing that a little more from her (or anyone else) would be productive of the direst results, slammed out of the room. After that Stella too went to bed, and was troubled with bad dreams till morning.
Guy's praiseworthy resolve to go to work as usual had, he felt, to be abandoned. He came down to breakfast looking pale and heavy-eyed, drank a great deal of rather strong tea, and crumbled a piece of toast. His answers to Stella's remarks were monosyllabic, so she presently gave up trying to talk to him, finished her breakfast, and went off to interview the cook.
Mrs Beecher added her mite to the day's ills by greeting her with a month's notice. She and Beecher, she said, were very sorry, but they were feeling Unsettled.
“Well, I can't say I'm surprised,” replied Stella candidly.
“No, miss, and I'm sure it's not your fault. But one's got to think of oneself, when all's said and done, and right or wrong, we don't neither of us care to stay in a house where people drop down dead with poison six days out of the seven. “Tisn't natural.”
“No,” agreed Stella, too dispirited to point out a somewhat gross overstatement. “Is anything wanted in the town?”
Mrs Beecher thereupon produced a sheet of paper, which seemed to be entirely covered with writing, and said there were just one or two little things she needed.
Stella took the list, and went upstairs to consult her mother.
Mrs Matthews was just about to get up when her daughter entered the room. She, like Guy, looked rather heavy-eyed. She said that she had had a bad night, and upon being shown Mrs Beecher's shopping list, moaned faintly, and implored Stella not to worry her with that.
“There's worse than this,” said Stella, pocketing the list. “The Beechers have given notice. Leaving at the end of the month. Shall I call in at the Registry Office?”
Mrs Matthews said that it made her sad to think of all the people in the world who never gave a thought to anyone but themselves. However, after moralising in this strain for about five minutes, she remembered that she had always meant to get rid of the Beechers if Gregory had left the house to her, so really it was a blessing in disguise. Stella left her planning the new staff, and went off to do the shopping.
When she returned, nearly an hour later, she found Guy pacing up and down the hall. She commented unfavourably on this, but he turned a strained, pale face towards her, and said abruptly: “The police are here. She was poisoned.”
Stella put her parcels rather carefully down on the table, and replied after a slight pause: “Well, we practically knew that. What was it?”
“Nicotine. Same as uncle.”
She nodded. “Bound to be. Where are the police?”
“In the library, with mother. They wouldn't let me stay.”
“Have they found out what the poison was put into?”
“No. At least, I don't think so. They took away a lot of medicines and things from Aunt Harriet's room on Saturday. I suppose there hasn't been time to analyse them yet.”
Stella slowly pulled off her gloves, and smoothed out the fingers. “As long as they don't know how the stuff was given, there's no need for us to panic,” she said.
“No one's panicking,” he answered irritably. “But they'll go on motive. I tell you, I've thought it all out from A to Z. It was all right when uncle died. Anybody might have done it. But Aunt Harriet's death has narrowed the field down to two: myself and Mother. And the serious part of it is that we had motives for both murders. No one else had the slightest motive for murdering Aunt Harriet. It's no use blinking facts: one or other of us is going to be arrested—perhaps both of us.
“Don't be such an ass!” said Stella. “They can't prove anything against either of you—can they?”
Guy stopped pacing up and down, and came to a halt by the table, and stood facing his sister across it. “If you'll take the trouble to look at it fair and square you'll see they've got a nasty-looking case against us,” he said forcibly. “I was in a jam, and nothing would induce me to go to South America, so I poisoned uncle. Then I found that Aunt Harriet had left her money to me, and because I'm hard-up, I poisoned her, too.”