Джорджетт Хейер - Behold, Here's Poison

Below, in the hall, the party had been augmented by the arrival of Mrs Lupton and her husband, who had motored over from their house on the other side of the Heath. The presence of Henry Lupton, a little, sandy moustached man with weak, worried blue eyes, was generally felt to be insignificant, but Gertrude Lupton's personality made her a formidable and unwelcome visitor. She was a massively built woman of about fifty-five, extremely upright, and reinforced wherever possible with whalebone. She even wore it inserted into the net fronts which invariably encased her throat. Her hats always had wide brims and very high crowns, and her face-powder was faintly tinted with mauve. She had been the nearest to Gregory Matthews in age of all his family, and the most like him in temperament. Both resembled nothing so much as steam-rollers in their dealings with their fellow creatures, but the difference between them had lain in the fact that whereas Gregory Matthews had been subject to awe-inspiring rages no one had ever seen Gertrude lose one jot of her implacable calm.

She was perfectly calm now, though evidently in the grip of some powerful emotion. She stood resting one hand on the gateleg table in the middle of the hall while she delivered herself of various forceful statements. Dr Fielding, pausing on the top stair, heard her quell Harriet's volubility with a stern admonition to the unfortunate lady to control herself; and annihilate Mrs Matthews, who had unwisely repeated the history of her premonition, by saying: “I have the greatest dislike for that kind of foolish talk, and I must say that I consider it quite uncalled—for in one who was no relation of my poor brother whatsoever. I sincerely trust, Zoë, that you will abandon any attempt to make yourself the central figure in this appalling affair, though I am bound to confess from my knowledge of you that it would be extremely like you to try to focus the limelight on yourself.”

The candour (and indeed thee blunt truth) of this speech came as near to confounding Mrs Matthews as anything could. The doctor, descending the stairs, thought that it said much for her control that she was able to reply, with unimpaired charity: “Ah, my dear Gertrude, I'm afraid that you strong-minded women don't always understand us highly-strung creatures.”

“I understand you perfectly, and I may say that I always have,” replied Mrs Lupton crushingly. She became aware of the doctor's approach, and wheeled round to confront him. “Dr Fielding, I believe. I have heard of you from my brother.”

Her tone implied that she had heard no good of him. He answered somewhat stiffly: “I have been attending Mr Matthews for some time, so I imagine you might.”

She looked him over. “And what,” she demanded, “was, in your opinion, the cause of my unfortunate brother's death?”

“In my opinion,” replied Fielding with a touch of sarcasm, “your brother died from syncope.”

“What on earth's that?” inquired Stella, who had come out of the dining-room as soon as she had heard his voice.

“You will oblige me,” said Mrs Lupton, ignoring her niece, “by being more precise.”

“Certainly,” said Fielding. “Your brother, as no doubt you know, suffered from a high blood-pressure, coupled with a slight valvula affection of the—”

“I am quite aware of the fact that you have been treating my brother for heart-trouble,” interrupted Mrs Lupton, “but I can only say that if he had a weak heart he was the only one of our family thus afflicted. I never believed in it. We come of extremely healthy stock. I am sure that such a thing as a weak heart was never dreamed of in our family.”

“Possibly not,” said Fielding. “But the fact remains that your brother had — as you call it — a weak heart. I repeatedly warned him against over-excitement and injudicious diet, and as he invariably disregarded my advice I have very little doubt that his death was due to syncope, produced, in all probability, by an attack of acute indigestion.”

“The duck!” exclaimed Miss Matthews. “I knew it!”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Matthews comfortingly. “I thought at the time that it was a little unwise of you to have ordered duck, but I make it a rule never to interfere in your province. If only one could have foreseen the result!”

“What did your brother eat for dinner last night?” asked the doctor.

“Roast duck,” answered Miss Matthews, miserably. “It never did agree with him, and there were two beautiful lamb cutlets which he wouldn't touch. I can't bear to think of them.”

“I am afraid,” said Mrs Matthews, recapturing the doctor's attention, “that last night's dinner was not very suitable for anyone with a delicate digestion. There was a lobster cocktail for one thing—”

“Oh, but uncle didn't have that!” objected Stella. “He took about one mouthful, and said it wasn't fit for human consumption.”

“Darling child, please don't interrupt!” said her mother. “And soles with rather a rich sauce, doctor, and a cheese savoury, which I always consider most indigestible.”

“It sounds to me exactly the sort of ill-chosen meal I should expect you to order, Harriet,” said Mrs Lupton severely, “but I have yet to learn that Gregory had anything wrong with his digestion. My own impression is that there is a great deal more in this than meets the eye, and I insist on seeing my brother's corpse immediately.”

Mrs Matthews winced, and closed her eyes. “Please!” she said faintly. “Not that terrible word, Gertrude!”

“I have no patience with that kind of sentimentality,” said Mrs Lupton. “I believe in calling things by their proper names, and if you can tell me that my unfortunate brother is not a corpse I shall be very grateful to you. Henry, I am going up to Gregory's room. You had better come with me.”

Henry Lupton, who had up till now remained discreetly in the background, said: “Yes, my dear, of course!” and with a deprecating look in Dr Fielding's direction, started forward to follow his wife up the stairs.

No one said anything until the Luptons were out of earshot. Dr Fielding was looking at Stella with a rueful smile; Mrs Matthews had sunk into a chair, and was wearing a resigned expression. Harriet, whose lips had been moving in silent communion with herself, suddenly said with strong indignation: “I shall never forgive her, never! I have been ordering meals for Gregory for years! None of the others killed him, so why should this one? Tell me that!”

“Ah, Harriet!” said Mrs Matthews, mournfully shaking her head.

“And don't say Ah, Harriet to me!” snapped Miss Matthews. “If anyone killed him it was you, with all the worry and disturbance about Guy—and about Stella too, now I come to think of it!”

“Oh, Deryk!” murmured Stella, “we're a dreadful family!”

Their fingers met and clasped for a brief moment.

“I wish you wouldn't all talk such rot!” suddenly ejaculated Guy from the dining-room doorway. “It's obvious what uncle died of! Nobody killed him!”

“If anyone mentions the word duck again, I rather think I shall scream,” said Stella.

The sound of a door being shut upstairs warned them of Mrs Lupton's return. She came down the stairs with her lips tightly compressed, and she did not say anything at all until she reached the hall. Then she drew a hissing breath, and said with strong feeling: “Terrible! I am inexpressibly shocked by what I have seen. My poor brother!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Henry Lupton, who was looking unhappier than ever. “Terrible, terrible!”

“That will do, Henry. Talking will not mend matters,” said his wife. She bent her hard stare on the doctor. “Do I understand that you are prepared to sign a death certificate?”