Behold, Here's Poison Part 13

'Did I say fortunately?' inquired Randall. 'I meant unfortunately, of course.'

'Happily the tonic was not made up at the dispensary,' said Fielding.

'No, I didn't expect that it would be,' said Randall.

Fielding's jaw became a shade more prominent. 'Moreover,' he said, 'nicotine is hardly a poison which a doctor would use, as you, with your medical training, of course, know, Matthews.'

Randall had been gazing meditatively through his windscreen, but he turned his head at that, and said with a crooked smile: 'So you know that, do you?'

'Oh yes!' said Fielding. 'Your uncle mentioned it once some time ago. He said that you were a most promising student, but that you abandoned the career when your father died.'

'And have you pa.s.sed this information on to the police?' asked Randall.

'No,' said Fielding. 'I did not consider it any business of mine.'

Randall leaned forward, and switched on his engine again. 'Well, you should,' he said. 'Superintendent Hannasyde would love it.'

Fielding shrugged. 'Oh, I've no wish to make mischief,' he said.

Randall gave a little croon of mirth. 'You flatter yourself, my dear doctor, really you do! Pa.s.s on your information: it will brighten the Superintendent's dull life, and it won't hurt me.'

'In that case, why should I bother?' said Fielding, and with a nod of farewell turned and walked on to the house.

His errand was to warn its inmates against making any statement to the Press. He had returned from his afternoon round to find his own house besieged with reporters, and in consequence he was in no very pleasant mood. Finding his fiancee inclined to treat the peril of the Press as a minor matter, he said somewhat tartly that he wished she would consider his position a little. Mrs Matthews, wearing a worldly-wise smile, at once a.s.sured him that he had nothing to fear. 'I saw one of the reporters myself,' she said gravely. 'And I think I made him understand how we all feel about it. I talked to him-words seemed to be sent to me-and I think he realised, and was ashamed.'

Guy said uneasily: 'I say, mother, you didn't give them any sort of statement, did you?'

'Dear boy, haven't I told you that I didn't?'

Guy said no more, but the doctor, when Stella saw him off, said: 'Really, Stella, I do think you might have prevented your mother seeing that fellow! If you don't object to publicity, I do. This case is doing me quite enough harm as it is.'

'I expect,' said Stella, in a small, very steady voice, 'it does you harm to be known to be engaged to me, doesn't it?'

'It's no use discussing that,' said Fielding. 'I don't suppose it does me much good, but it can't be helped.' 'It might be,' said Stella, raising her eyes to his face. 'My dear girl, please don't think I'm trying to back out of it,' he said.

Guy came out into the hall at that moment, so the conversation had to be suspended. Guy was as uneasy as the doctor, and said that he wouldn't mind betting that his mother had talked a lot of ghastly hot air to the reporter.

His mistrust of her was justified. Next morning the Daily Reflector carried a fat, black headline on its front page, a photograph of the Poplars, and another (inset) of Mrs Matthews stepping out of the court-room after the Inquest. When Guy came down to breakfast he found his aunt and sister with no less than four picture papers, indignantly reading extracts aloud to each other.

' "Murdered Man's Sister in Suburban Poison Drama Refuses to Discuss Mystery Death",' read Stella in an awed voice. ' "We think it wiser to say nothing," says Mrs Zo Matthews, the graceful fair-haired widow concerned in the mysterious poisoning case at Grinley Heath which is baffling the Scotland Yard experts." Mummy will love that bit Guy, look at the photograph of Mummy! I ask you!'

'Listen to this!' begged Miss Matthews in a trembling voice. 'I never heard anything to equal it, never!'

' "Wearing mourning"-I should like to know what else she would be wearing!-"and with a look of strain in her sad eyes, charming Mrs Zo Matthews, the widowed sister-in-law of Gregory Matthews, whose death under mysterious circ.u.mstances took place at his residence at Grinley Heath a week ago, received me yesterday in her sunny drawing-room." Her drawing-room, indeed! Oh, I've no doubt she told him it belonged to her, but as for it being sunny it never gets a ray of sun all day, as she very well knows!'

Guy, quite pale with dismay, came hurriedly across the room to look over his aunt's shoulder at the offending paragraph. ' "One has to remember that life goes on... irreparable loss as much a mystery to us as to Scotland Yard..." Good G.o.d, she can't have said all this muck!'

'Of course she said it!' snapped Miss Matthews. 'It's just the sort of rubbish I should expect her to talk. "There was a great bond between my poor brother-in-law and me!"... oh, was there? And not one word about what my feelings are! . . "Calm and self-possessed."... Selfpossessed! Brazen would be nearer the mark! Oh, I've no patience with it!'

Guy rescued the paper, which Miss Matthews seemed to be inclined to rend in pieces, and retired with it to the window. Stella, deep meanwhile in the Morning Star, suddenly gave a gasp, and exclaimed: 'Of all the cheek! Aunt Harriet, listen to this! "Mr Matthews' death was a terrible shock to us all,' pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry, the twenty-three-year-old housemaid at the Poplars, informed our representative yesterday." There's miles more of it, and even a bit about Rose's young man. Oh, she says they all feel it as a personal loss!'

'What?' shrieked Miss Matthews.

'There's a photograph too,' said Stella.

Miss Matthews s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from her. 'She leaves the house today, month or no month!' she declared. 'The impertinence of it! Personal loss! What's more it's a lie, because every servant we ever had hated Gregory! She'd never have dared to do this if she hadn't been under notice!'

Beecher came into the room at this moment, and was promptly glared at by his incensed mistress. 'Do you know anything about this disgraceful affair?' demanded Miss Matthews, striking the paper with her hand.

Beecher coughed. 'Yes, miss. Very reprehensible indeed. Mrs Beecher has been giving Rose a piece of her mind. Mr Randall is on the phone, miss.'

'What does he want?' growled Guy.

'He did not say, sir.'

'Well, I'm not going to answer it,' said Guy, sitting down at the table. 'Tell him we're out.'

'You go, Stella,' said her aunt. 'Though what he can want I'm sure I don't know.'

Stella sighed, and put down the paper. 'Why it should have to be me I fail to understand,' she remarked, but she went out into the hall and picked up the receiver. 'Hullo?' she said in a discouraging voice. 'Stella speaking. What is it?'

Randall's dulcet voice answered her. 'Good-morning, my sweet. Tell me at once-I am quite breathless with excitement-why have I never been privileged to set eyes on pretty, blue-eyed Rose Daventry?'

'Oh, d.a.m.n you, shut up!' said Stella crossly. 'What is it you want?'

A laugh floated to her ears. 'Only that, darling.'

'Then go to h.e.l.l!' said Stella, and slammed the receiver down.

Others beside Randall had seen the picture papers that morning, and it was not long before Mrs Lupton arrived at the Poplars in a state of outraged majesty. She wished to know whether Rose had been turned out of the house, and if not why not; whether Mrs Matthews realised the height of her own folly; what her sister Harriet had been about to let a reporter set foot inside the house; and what steps were being taken by the police to discover Gregory Matthews' murderer. No one was able to give an answer to this last question, and Mrs Lupton, not in any hasty spirit, but as the result of impartial consideration, p.r.o.nounced her verdict: 'The case is being handled with the grossest incompetence,' she declared. 'I do not find that the police are making the smallest effort to trace my unfortunate brother's a.s.sa.s.sin.'

This harsh judgment, however, was not quite fair to Superintendent Hannasyde, who at that very moment was seated in Giles Carrington's office with Gregory Matthews' Pa.s.s-book open on the desk between them.

'Do you know what connection Matthews had with a man called Hyde?' Hannasyde asked.

Giles shook his head. 'No, I'm afraid I don't. Why do you want to know?'

'I've been going through these Bank accounts,' replied Hannasyde, 'and it appears that a considerable number of the cheques paid into his Bank by Matthews came from this Hyde. Take a look. They're all rather large sums, and seem to have been paid in regularly once a month.'

Giles took the Pa.s.s-book, and studied the marked entries. 'Looks as though he were running some sort of a business,' he remarked. 'If he was, I never heard of it. Do you suppose he owned a p.a.w.nbroker's, or a Fish-and Chips shop, and didn't want anyone to know of it?'

'I can't make it out at all. It may be something of that nature. I've had an interview with the Bank Manager, but he doesn't know any more than you do. The cheques were all drawn on the City Branch of Foster's Bank. The Chief Cashier remembered them at once. I'll have to go and see what I can find out there.' He got up, and held out his hand for the Pa.s.s-book. 'I came to see you first because it's always a bit of a job getting information out of Banks.'

'Sorry,' said Giles. 'Nothing doing at all. I'll tell you what, though: if anyone knows, Randall Matthews would. It's my belief there's precious little about his uncle that young gentleman doesn't know.'

Hannasyde smiled rather grimly. 'Yes, I had thought of him. But I haven't found Mr Randall Matthews precisely falling over himself to take me into his confidence. Still, I can try him if all else fails.'

He left Adam Street, and journeyed east, to the City. At Foster's Bank the manager was civil, but by no means friendly. The Bank, he said, was no doubt what Superintendent Hannasyde would consider old-fashioned; they had old-fashioned ways in it; he himself greatly deplored the modern methods of the police in trying to obtain information through Banks. Time was...

Hannasyde, who never made enemies wantonly, listened, and sympathised, and quite agreed with the manager. In the end he got some information out of him, though not very much. The manager knew very little about John Hyde, who hardly ever came in person to the Bank. He had opened an account a good many years ago now. It was believed that he was an agent for some northern firm of manufacturers; his address was 17 Gadsby Row; the manager regretted he could give Hannasyde no further information.

Gadsby Row, which was a narrow, crowded street in the heart of the City, did not take Hannasyde long to find. He turned down it from the busy thoroughfare which it bisected, and, threading his way between hurrying typists and bare-headed errand-boys, soon arrived at No. 17. This was found to be a newsagent's shop, which also sold the cheaper kinds of cigarettes and tobacco. It was a mean little place, with dirty, fly-blown windows, and it bore the name H. Brown on the fascia board. A couple of steps led up into the interior of the shop, which was dark, and small, and smelled of stale smoke. Hannasyde walked in, and almost at once a door at the back of the shop opened, and a stout woman in an overall came into the shop, and asked him what he wanted.

'I am looking for a Mr John Hyde,' said Hannasyde. 'I understand this is where he lives.'

'He ain't in,' she replied shortly. 'Don't know when he'll be back.'

'Where can I find him, do you know?'

'I couldn't say, I'm sure.'

The door at the back of the shop opened again, and a middle-aged man with a wispy moustache and a pair of watery blue eyes came out in his shirt-sleeves, and said: 'What's the gentleman want, Emma?'

'Someone asking for Mr Hyde,' she answered indifferently.

'You'll have to call back. He's not here.'

'That's what I told him,' corroborated his wife. 'Is this where he lives?' asked Hannasyde.

'No, it isn't,' said Mr Brown, eyeing him with dawning dislike.

'Then perhaps you can tell me where he does live?'

'No, I'm sorry, I can't. Take a message, if you like.' Hannasyde produced a card, and gave it to him.

'That's my name,' he said. 'It may help your memory a bit.'

Mr Brown read the legend on the card, and shot a swift, lowering look at the Superintendent. His wife craned her neck to see the card, and perceptibly changed colour. She stared at Hannasyde and thrust out her lip a little. 'We don't want no busies here!' she announced. 'What d'you want to know?'

Hannasyde, who was accustomed to being regarded by the Mrs Browns of this world with deep distrust, did not set a great deal of store by her obvious uneasiness, but replied in a business-like voice: 'I've told you what I want to know. Where can I find Mr John Hyde?'

'How can we tell you what we don't know?' she cried. 'He ain't here, that's all.'

Her husband nudged her away. 'That's O.K., Emma: you get back to the kitchen.' He put the Superintendent's card down on the counter, and said with a smile that showed a set of discoloured teeth: 'That's right, what she says. We haven't set eyes on Mr Hyde, not since last Tuesday.'

'What does he do here?'

Mr Brown caressed his stubbly chin. 'Well, you see, in a manner of speaking he owns the place.'

Hannasyde frowned. 'You mean he owns this shop?'

'No, not to say the shop, he doesn't. The whole house is his.'

'He's your landlord, in fact?'

'That's it,' agreed Mr Brown. 'He's an agent for one of them big firms up north. I don't know as he's got what you'd call a fixed address, barring this. You see, he travels about a lot in the way of business.'

'Do you mean that he has an office here, or what?'

'That's right You can see it if you like. There ain't anything there.'

'How long has he been here?'

'Well, I couldn't say offhand,' said Mr Brown vaguely. 'A goodish time. Somewhere round about seven or eight years, I think.'

'What age man is he? What does he look like?'

'He's nothing particular to look at. I don't know as I could hardly describe him. He hasn't got the sort of face you can take hold of. Middle-aged, he is, and keeps himself to himself. What do you want with him?'

'That's my business. How often does he come here?'

'Pretty often,' Mr Brown said sullenly.

'Come along, answer! Does he come here every day?'

'Sometimes. Sometimes not. It ain't nothing to do with me. He comes as he pleases.'

'When did you see him last?'

'I told you. It was last Tuesday. I ain't laid eyes on him since.'

'Did he say he was going away?'

'No, he didn't. He didn't say nothing.'

'Didn't give you any address for his letters to be forwarded to?'

Mr Brown shot him another of his lowering glances. 'There hasn't been no letters.'

There was little more to be got out of him. After one or two more questions which were answered in the same grudging manner, Hannasyde left the shop. The personality of Mr John Hyde, about which he had felt, an hour earlier, only a mild curiosity, had suddenly become a problem of unexpected importance. The elusive Mr Hyde would have to be found, and his connection with Gregory Matthews traced to its source. It was a job for the department, but while he was on his way to Scotland Yard Hannasyde all at once changed his mind, and instead of going to Whitehall, got on an omnibus bound for Piccadilly, and went to pay a call on Mr Randall Matthews.

Chapter Nine.

It was nearly noon by the time Hannasyde arrived at Randall's flat, but that elegant young gentleman received him in a brocade dressing-gown of gorgeous colouring and design. He seemed, with the exception of his coat, to be fully clad under the glowing robe, so Hannasyde concluded that the wearing of it was due rather to a love of the exotic than to actual sloth. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Sergeant Hemingway's appreciation of the dressing-gown, could he but have seen it, and embarked without preamble on an explanation of his visit.