“Yes, from the first,” Hannasyde said curtly. “Not the type to use a rare poison. But go on, please.”
“Fielding,” Randall said. “Well, Fielding looked like becoming a complication. Rumbold didn't want anyone to suffer the consequences of his crime. If the worst came to the worst, he was prepared to clear up the mess. But he kept his head, and waited. Things looked like blowing over. That was thanks to me, but he didn't know that. Then an entirely unforeseen disaster occurred in the death of my Aunt Harriet. Rumbold was not only horrified on his own account; he was profoundly upset on hers. When he heard what sort of a case my clever Aunt Zoë had built up against herself, he realised that he might have to intervene to save her from arrest at any moment. When I came down, and dropped some of my more airy remarks on the subject of Hyde he guessed that I should probably save him the trouble of telling you the truth. By that time it looked to me as though I should have to. Partly owing to fright and partly to innate hypocrisy, my Aunt Zoë was queering her own pitch by telling you improbable lies, while Guy, from what I was able to gather, had thought it the moment to make a grand gesture with the noble intention of saving his mother from the scaffold, and the quite opposite effect of making you suspect her rather more strongly than before. But the worst was that you had discovered the medium through which the poison was administered. Once you had that you weren't likely to let up on the case. It was entirely obvious to me that I was, with the destruction of my alibi, the hottest candidate for arrest. Well, Superintendent, Rumbold had my approval, but I can't say that I felt the least inclination to perish without a cry either to protect him or the family honour. Obviously, I should have to cry extremely loudly, whether you arrested me, or my Aunt Zoë, or my irrelevant cousin, Guy. Well, I have a rooted objection to loud noises. That is why Rumbold has committed suicide — in a fit of temporary insanity, shall we say? — and why you are here, listening to me without prejudice.”
Hannasyde got up. “Mr Matthews, do you realise the part you've played in this?” he demanded.
“None better,” said Randall. “I rather think I must be an accessory after the fact.”
“Do you imagine that I can possibly hush this up?”
“Well, what do you propose to do about it?” Randall inquired amiably. “Are you going to get the Public Prosecutor to bring a case against a dead man?”
“Have you any proof of what you've told me?”
“There will be Rumbold's written statement, and I have preserved for your perusal the evidence culled from my Uncle Hyde's papers. In my character of executor I burned everything but the documents that dealt with Rumbold's case. I think your department will keep it as quiet as possible, Superintendent. Cases of the murder of blackmailers are rather ticklish, aren't they? So few people have any sympathy with the victim. You can, of course, bring a case against me for suppressing evidence, but under the circumstances, I'm inclined to think that might be a bit ticklish, too. You would merely stir up a great deal of mud for nothing. May I offer you a whiskey-and-soda?”
“Yes, you may!” said Hannasyde, with something of a snap.
Randall gave his soft laugh, and went over to a table against the wall where the whiskey decanter stood, and mixed two drinks. He came back with them, and gave one to Hannasyde. “Well, Superintendent?” he said.
Hannasyde sat down again. “You had better tell me the rest of it. If I choose to bring it up against you at a prosecution, it will only be my word against yours,” he added sarcastically.
“I shouldn't dream of contradicting you,” said Randall in his most dulcet voice.
“When did you see Rumbold?”
“Today, when I left Grinley Heath.”
“Where? Not at his home?”
“No, certainly not. At his office. He was quite prepared for my visit. We went out to lunch together, and over lunch he told me what I have told you, and I described to him my part in the affair, and gave him my word that I would do what lay in my power to keep the truth from Mrs Rumbold.”
There was not a trace of expression in Randall's voice, but Hannasyde cast one shrewd glance at him, and said in a softer tone: “Not a very pleasant lunch, Mr Matthews.”
Randall said dryly: “That, Superintendent, is putting it mildly.”
Hannasyde nodded. “I can guess how you must feel about it.”
“Let's leave it at that, shall we?” suggested Randall, with an edge to his voice.