Behold, Here's Poison ih-2 Read online

  “I must say, that is perfectly true,” agreed his mother. “And one cannot help wondering whether it is quite what poor Gregory would have liked.”

  “It isn't,” said Miss Matthews positively. “He said he wasn't going to have anything more to do with doctors. And it isn't what I like either, though no one considers my feelings in this house, or ever has! I know what it will be. We shall all have to answer questions which have nothing to do with the case, and after all no one could possibly live with Gregory without quarrelling with him. And for my part I shall tell them quite frankly that it was Gertrude who always quarrelled most with him in the nursery, which is perfectly true, as poor Hubert and Arthur would bear me out if only they were alive to hear me!” This chance reference to her two deceased brothers caused her to burst into tears again. She brought out a large handkerchief from her pocket, and sniffed into it, saying: “If only I had a Man to turn to! But my brothers are all dead, and even Mr Rumbold's away, and you can put upon me as much as you choose!”

  “Don't be ridiculous, Harriet!” commanded her sister. “No one suspects you of having anything to do with it.”

  “That's what you say!” retorted Miss Matthews. “But I haven't the least doubt they'll bring it home to the duck, and not believe a word about the cutlets! And if they don't say it's the duck you may depend upon it they'll fix upon poor Guy, because his uncle was going to send him to South America, which was just like Gregory, and if Guy had killed him there would have been some excuse.

  And so I shall tell them! Guy's the only one of you who has any affection for his poor old aunt, and it's my belief you're behaving like this out of pure spite, Gertrude!”

  After delivering herself of this diatribe Miss Matthews was entirely overcome, and sobbed so gustily, and thrust her sister and sister-in-law away so violently that it fell to Guy and Stella to escort her up to her own room. Guy performed his share of this task without conveying any marked impression of fondness for his aunt, while Stella openly grimaced at Dr Fielding. She was obliged to remain with Miss Matthews until that afflicted lady had recovered some measure of composure, and by the time she was at liberty to go downstairs again Dr Fielding had left the house, and Mrs Matthews was bidding farewell to the Luptons in the porch.

  Stella found her brother in the library, telephoning to Mr Nigel Brooke, with whom, a year ago, he had gone into a precarious partnership.

  Mr Brooke's vocation was Interior Decoration, and since Guy coupled a leaning towards Art with a profound veneration for Mr Brooke, four years his senior, he had had no difficulty in discovering the same vocation in himself. Both were alike inn being the only sons of widowed mothers, but whereas Nigel had entire control over his inherited capital the little money which Arthur Matthews had been able to leave his son was left him in trust, the trustees being his wife, and his eldest brother, Gregory. Guy had owed his partnership to his mother's skilful handling of his uncle, Gregory Matthews, who liked a Pretty Woman, and who knew next to nothing of his nephew's abilities, and had allowed himself to be cajoled into putting up a thousand pounds for Guy's share in the virgin business. Since that day he had ample opportunity of appraising his nephew's capabilities, and the result of this study was that upon being asked for a further advance to support the struggling fortunes of the firm of Brooke and Matthews he had countered with an offer from a business acquaintance who had a vacancy for a young man in the office of his rubber plantations in Brazil. The coaxings and even the tears of a Pretty Woman had this time failed to melt Gregory. He apostrophised his nephew as a young waster, and stated, with unnecessary violence, his profound desire to be rid of him. For perhaps the first time in her life Zoë Matthews had found it impossible to get her own way. Her only means of gratifying her son's ambition, and of keeping him at her side, was to sell out some of her own capital for his use, and since her income was already quite insufficient for her needs this expedient was naturally out of the question. She did not even consider it. Nor did she permit her resentment to become apparent to Gregory Matthews, for that would have been very stupid, and might have led to the loss of an extremely comfortable home for which she was not expected to pay as much as one farthing. The home had its disadvantages, of course. It was not her own, and the presence of her sister-in-law was always an irritation, but since poor Harriet was the antithesis of everything Gregory Matthews thought a female should be it needed really very little trouble to enlist his support in any disagreement she happened to have with her sister-in law. Patience and unfailing sweetness had achieved their object: at the end of a five-year sojourn at the Poplars Zoë Matthews had contrived to make herself, if not the mistress of the house, at least the cherished guest whose comfort must be everyone's first consideration. “Such a ruthless woman - my dear Aunt Zoë,” Randall Matthews had once murmured, glancing maliciously up under his long lashes.

  Randall was in Stella's thoughts as she waited for her brother to conclude his conversation with Nigel Brooke. When he put the receiver down at last she said abruptly: “Do you suppose uncle left everything to Randall, Guy?”

  “You bet he did—most of it, anyway,” replied Guy. “Randall's been working for it for months, if you ask me—always turning up here for no known reason except to oil up to uncle by suddenly being attentive to him. It's so damned unfair! I come down from Oxford, and get a job absolutely bang-off, and stick to it, and all Randall does is to drift around looking willowy and run through a packet of money (because Uncle Hubert left a fair spot, so Aunt Harriet told me) and never do a stroke of work, or attempt to! It makes me sick! Besides, he's so utterly poisonous.”

  Stella lit a cigarette. “I suppose he'll turn up next. And say foul things to everybody in a loving voice. Do you think uncle's left mother any money?”

  “Yes, I'm pretty sure he has,” said Guy confidently. “Anyway, the main point is she's my sole trustree now, which means I shall be able to carry on with Nigel.” His brow clouded. “Everything would be all right if it weren't for that blasted old harridan Aunt Gertrude! What the hell she wanted to stick her nose into it for I can't imagine.”

  Jealous of us,” said Stella negligently. “She probably thinks mother's getting more out of uncle's death than she is. Of course it's fairly noxious, but I suppose it doesn't really matter—the post-mortem, I mean.”

  “Oh, doesn't it matter?” said Guy with considerable bitterness. Well, for once in her life Aunt Harriet hit the nail on the head! We shall have the police barging in and asking damned awkward questions, and if that's your idea of a good time it isn't mine! Everyone knows I had a flaming row with uncle over his precious South American scheme, and when the police hear about that I shall be in a nice position.”

  Stella, not much impressed, flicked the ash off her cigarette on to the carpet “But when they don't find poison in uncle they won't ask us any questions at all.”

  “Yes, but what if they do find poison?” Guy demanded.

  “They won't.” She looked up quickly. “Good lord, you don't—you don't really think he was done-in, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” answered Guy. “Still, we've got to face the fact that he may have been. Mind you, I don't believe he was, but that ass Fielding didn't seem any too sure.”

  “Do you frightfully mind not calling Deryk "that ass"?” asked Stella frigidly. “I happen to be going to marry him.”

  “Well, you'll have a jolly job explaining that to the police,” retorted Guy. “And you'll also be able to tell them what uncle said about it, not forgetting the bit about the Inebriates' Home.”

  “Shut up!” Stella said fiercely. “It isn't Deryk's fault that his father drank!”

  “No, but it's definitely his misfortune,” mocked Guy. “Particularly if it comes out that uncle, in his well-known playful way, threatened to blow the gaff if Fielding didn't lay-off you.”

  Stella's hand as she raised her cigarette to her lips was shaking, but she controlled her temper, and merely said: “I suppose you have to be vulgar as well
as spiteful?”

  “I may be vulgar, but I'm not in the least spiteful,” replied Guy. “I'm merely pointing out to you how and where you stand. I don't blame Fielding for having a Hopeless Inebriate for a father, but if you think Grinley Heath would be nice about it you've got another guess coming. A fat lot of practice he'd have had here by now if uncle had split! 'Tisn't as though he were even T.T. himself. Far from it, in fact.”

  “You're a filthy, backbiting little cad!” Stella exploded, her cheeks flaming. “If you're hinting that Deryk poisoned uncle, let me tell you that I'd a lot sooner believe you did!”

  “Oh, you would, would you?” said Guy, suddenly furious. “Thanks very much! Well, I didn't poison him, and I'll trouble you to refrain from suggesting that I did! Because if there's going to be any chat of that sort from you, there'll be quite a spot from me about your precious Deryk! Quite got that?”

  “If you think that I'd—” Stella broke off, staring across the room at him. She gave an uncertain laugh. “What on earth did you start this futile argument for? You talk as though we knew uncle had been poisoned, and you know perfectly well it's all rot!”

  “Yes, of course,” Guy said, his anger evaporating. “Utter rot. Sorry; I didn't mean to be offensive. Only if there does happen to be trouble we've damned well got to stick together.”

  “What's going to be done?” asked Stella, after a slight pause. “Did Aunt Gertrude ring up the police?”

  “No; Fielding's going to get on to the Coroner. They'll come and take uncle's body away, and I suppose we shan't know anything much for a day or two. I asked Fielding, and he said it would be a question of sending the organs up to the Home Office, or somewhere. I've rung up uncle's lawyer, by the way, so no doubt he'll come down with the Will. Personally I can't see any reason why I shouldn't go up to town as usual.”

  His mother, entering the room at that moment, overheard this last remark and read him a fond but reproving lecture on the respect due to the dead. When she perceived that this made very little impression on him she begged him to consider her feelings. Stella, realising that her mother was going to expatiate sadly on the loneliness of widowhood, slipped out of the room, and went upstairs, only to run into her aunt, who had temporarily forgotten her woes in the discovery that owing to the window in Gregory Matthews' bathroom having been left open the new bottle of his medicine had been blown over into the washbasin, and smashed.

  “I can't see that it matters,” said Stella crossly. “You couldn't use up somebody else's tonic.”

  “No, but the chemist always allows us something on the bottles,” said Miss Matthews severely.

  Stella looked with faint repulsion at the assortment of objects in her aunt's clutch, and wondered how one could be expected to feel solemn about death when one's relatives behaved like Aunt Harriet. Miss Matthews had triumphantly collected from her brother's bathroom his sponges and face-flannel (which would all come in useful for cleaning-rags), a cake of soap, two toothbrushes (excellent for scrubbing silver filigree dishes), a half-used tube of toothpaste (which she proposed to use up herself as soon as her own was finished), a bottle of mouth-wash, and a loofah.

  “I thought Guy might like the loofah,” said Miss Matthews. “It's a very good one. There's the end of a stick of shaving-soap too.”

  “If you take my advice you won't offer it to him,” said Stella. “He's a bit squeamish.”

  “If there's one thing I hate above all others,” declared Miss Matthews, “it is waste!”

  Her activities during the rest of the morning were surprising. Having ordered cold lamb and rice-pudding for lunch, spurning all Mrs Beecher's more appetising suggestions on the score that no one would care what there was to eat on such an occasion as this, she announced her intention of having Gregory Matthews' room turned out. No sooner had his body been removed in an ambulance than she ordered both Rose and Mary upstairs to begin this work of purification. Rose at once started to cry, saying that she couldn't bear to enter the Master's room, but Miss Matthews, her own late qualms forgotten, told her not to be silly, but to gather up all the Master's discarded underclothing, and carry them to the dirty-linen basket. Rose immediately gave notice, and retired sobbing. Mrs Matthews came up to suggest that they should all of them devote the rest of this unhappy day to quiet and meditation, but was tartly informed that if a thing had to be done her sister-in-law did not believe in putting it off. She went away, routed, and since Guy was occupied in designing an overmantel for a house in Dorking, and flatly refused to meditate with his mother, and Stella could not be found, abandoned all ideas of a contemplative day, and ordered the chauffeur to motor her to town for the purpose of buying mourning clothes.

  When Miss Matthews, busily engaged in inspecting the condition of Gregory's suits (with a view to selling them), heard of her sister-in-law's action she could scarcely contain herself. To go to London for no nobler purpose than to squander money on dress seemed to her the height of callousness. “After all her talk about setting our minds on higher things! Meditation indeed! And I should very much like to know what right she has to take the car out without one word to me!” This aspect of the case soon outweighed every other. Miss Matthews went muttering about the house, and by lunch-time had muttered herself into a state of considerable agitation which found expression in a sudden announcement to her nephew and niece that she could not enjoy a moment's peace until she had seen Gregory's Will, and had the Whole Thing settled Once and for All.

  One glance at the rice pudding which succeeded the lamb at luncheon drove Stella from the table. She said in a wan voice that she really didn't feel she could, and betook herself to the house next door.

  Dr Fielding had come in from his rounds when Stella arrived, and had just gone in to luncheon. He was glancing through his notebook when Stella was ushered into the room, but at sight of her he threw the book aside, and jumped up. “Stella, my dear!”

  “I've come to lunch,” said Stella. “There's nothing but mutton and rice chez noun, and I can't bear it.”

  He smiled. “Poor darling! Jenner, lay for Miss Matthews. Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it. Have you had a difficult morning?”

  “Ghastly,” said Stella, accepting a glass of sherry. “Enough to make one wish uncle hadn't died.”

  Fielding gave her a warning look, and said: “I was afraid you'd have rather a bad time. All right, Jenner, we'll wait on ourselves.” He paused while the manservant withdrew, and then said: “Stella, be careful what you say in front of people. You don't want anyone to get the impression that you wished your uncle to die.”

  “I didn't wish him to,” replied Stella. “I hadn't ever considered the possibility. He wasn't the sort of person you'd expect to die, was he?”

  “Well, I'm a doctor,” said Fielding, smiling.

  “You mean you did expect it? You never told me.”

  “No, I didn't exactly expect it. Nor should I have told you if I had, my darling.”

  Stella laid down her knife and fork. “Deryk, please tell me one thing: Do you believe uncle was poisoned?”

  “No, I don't,” he answered. “But although there were no signs not compatible with death from syncope, I couldn't undertake to state definitely that he was not poisoned upon a purely superficial examination.”

  She looked a little troubled, and presently said: “I do wish there hadn't got to be a post-mortem. Whatever you may say, I believe you're secretly a bit afraid that they may find something.”

  “I'm not in the least afraid of it,” said Fielding calmly. “I hope they won't, for all your sakes, but if there's any doubt I want it cleared up.”

  Stella was unappeased. “Well, it's pretty beastly for the rest of us. I must say I hoped you weren't going to give in to Aunt Gertrude. Couldn't you have stopped it all?”

  He raised his eyebrows rather quizzically. “My dearest child! What about my professional reputation?”

  “I don't know, but you said yourself you were prepared to sign a death ce
rtificate. I can't understand your wanting a post-mortem. Supposing they do find poison? Everyone knows uncle had a row with you about me, and it seems to me the police are quite likely to start suspecting you of having given him poison.”

  “They can suspect what they like,” said Fielding coolly. “But they'll be darned clever if they manage to prove that I ever administered poison to your uncle. Don't you worry your head about me, Stella: I haven't the slightest reason to fear a post-mortem.”

  “Of course I didn't mean that I thought you really might have poisoned uncle,” said Stella. “But it does seem to me that things are going to be fairly beastly one way and another. The only nice part of it is that we shall be able to get married now without an awful fight. I don't think mother really minds about it. She's much more wrapped up in Guy than she is in me.”

  He stretched out his hand to her across the table. “Well, that's a very nice part, anyway.”

  She nodded. “Yes, because I hate rows. I should have married you whatever uncle said, but it makes it easier now that he's dead.”

  Fielding got up, and came round behind her chair. “I'm going to ring for Jenner to bring in the next course,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders. “But first I must kiss you.”

  She raised her face, and as he bent over her put her hand to caress his lean cheek. “How many girls have you kissed, like that?” she asked, when she was able.

  “Crowds,” he said, laughing.

  She smiled, but said seriously: “I expect that's true. You were keen on Betty Mason before you thought of me, weren't you?”

  “Never!”

  “Oh, I'm not throwing a jealous fit,” Stella assured him. “You needn't mind admitting it. I think you're rather the type that can't help making love to girls who aren't actually cross-eyed or hare-Tipped. I shall probably have an awful time with you when we're married.”