Джорджетт Хейер - Behold, Here's Poison

Stella did not feel that she could let this pass. “Yes,” she said across the room. “Mother said today that she believed uncle was fonder of her than of either of his sisters.”

Mrs Lupton bent a cold stare upon her. “I can well imagine that your mother may have said so, but if she supposes that your uncle had any real affection for anyone but himself she is a bigger fool than I take her for.” She turned back to her sister. “Has anyone remembered to inform Randall of his uncle's death?” she demanded.

“I'm sure it's no use asking me,” replied Miss Matthews. “I have had far too much to think of.”

“If there's one thing more certain than anything else it is that we don't want Randall coming here to make things ten times more unbearable than they are already,” said Guy.

“My opinion of Randall must be as well known to you as it is to him,” said Mrs Lupton, “but personal feelings are beside the point. So far as we know Randall is his uncle's heir. He is certainly the head of the family, and he should be summoned.”

“I must say,” remarked Janet with an air of originality, “that I don't like Randall. I know it's wrong of me, but I just can't help it. He's the sort of person I could never trust. I don't know why, I'm sure.”

“Oh, because he's like an amiable snake,” said Stella light-heartedly. “Smooth, and fanged.”

The door opened. “Mr Randall Matthews!” announced Beecher.

“Hell!” said Guy audibly.

There entered a sleek and beautiful young man who paused just inside the door, and glanced round at his assembled relatives with a bland and faintly mocking smile. He was dressed with the most finicking care, and nothing could have been more symphonic than the blend of his shirt with his silk socks and his expensive tie. His figure was extremely elegant; his hands were well-manicured; his jet-black hair was brushed into waves undisturbed by the slightest disorder; and his teeth were so gleamingly white and regular that they might have served for an advertisement for somebody's toothpaste. His mouth was a little too thin-lipped to be perfect, and curled too sarcastically to be pleasant, but his eyes, set under straight brows and fringed by long lashes, were remarkable for their colour and brilliance. They were of a startling and deep blue, very hard, generally half-hidden by drooping lids, and occasionally disconcerting in their sudden alertness. As he looked from one to the other of his relations they were smiling, and quite limpid.

“How lovely for me!” he said in a voice of honeyed sweetness. “Not only my dear Aunt Gertrude, but my charming cousin Janet as well!” He walked forward, graceful and rather feline, and bent to kiss his aunt's cheek. “My dear aunt! You look so nice in that hat.”

“Do you think so?” said Mrs Lupton unresponsively.

“I've thought so for years,” he said gently, and passed on to Miss Matthews. “You must none of you bother to say how pleased you are to see me,” he said. “I can read it in all your expressive faces.” He looked critically at Stella, and strolled across the room towards her. “Yes, darling, that is quite a nice frock, but the handkerchief is not only the wrong shade of grey, but quite damnably tied. Let me show you, my sweet.”

Stella pushed his hand away. “No, thanks!”

He was still smiling. “How you hate me, don't you?” he murmured. “And Guy? How are you, little cousin?”

Guy, who did not relish this form of address, glowered at him.

Mrs Lupton, still rigid with wrath at the edged compliment paid her, said sharply: “I presume you have heard the news of your uncle's death?”

“Oh yes!” said Randall. “You will notice that I am wearing an armband. I always like to observe the conventions. And which of you,” he inquired, looking amiably round, “is responsible for dear uncle's death? Or don't you know?”

This airy question produced a feeling of tension, which was possibly Randall's object. Mrs Lupton said: “That is not amusing nor is this a time for jokes in bad taste.”

Randall opened his eyes at her. “Dear aunt, did you think I was joking?”

“If uncle was poisoned, which I don't believe he was for an instant,” said Stella, “you had a bigger motive for killing him than anyone else!”

Randall took a cigarette out of his thin gold case, and lit it in a leisurely way. “True, my pet, very true, but you mustn't forget that I was several miles distant when he died. And while I am on the subject may I ask who was responsible for starting this canard that uncle was poisoned?”

“I was responsible for the post-mortem,” replied Mrs Lupton.

“Do you know, I thought perhaps you might be?” said Randall.

“I am by no means satisfied that your uncle died a natural death. I accuse no one; I make no insinuations; but I shall be surprised if my suspicions are not found to be correct.”

“I know you like plain-speaking, my beloved aunt,” said Randall, “so you will not mind my telling you that I find your behaviour extremely officious.”

“Indeed?”

“And ill judged,” said Randall pensively.

“I am not concern—”

“Also more than a little stupid. But that was to be expected.”

“It may interest you to know—”

“Experience, my dear aunt, leads me to reply with confidence that whatever it is you have to say is not in the least likely to interest me.”

While Mrs Lupton fought for words Stella said curiously: “Then you don't think uncle can really have been poisoned, Randall?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” replied Randall. “The question interests me almost as little as Aunt Gertrude's remarks.”

“Of course, I see what you mean,” said Janet. “But if he was poisoned I'm sure we all want it cleared up.”

“Are you, darling?” said Randall solicitously.

“Well—well, you wouldn't want a thing like that to go unpunished, would you?” said Janet.

“If there's any doubt naturally we want it cleared up!” said Guy, looking defiantly at Mrs Lupton.

“That was not the tone you used this morning,” she commented dryly.

“You must not pay too much attention to Guy, Aunt Gertrude,” said Randall. “He is only trying to impress you.”

“Damn you, are you hinting that I've any reason for wanting it hushed up?” demanded Guy angrily.

“Shut up! he's only trying to get a rise out of you,” said Stella. She met Randall's ironic gaze, and said bluntly:

“Why are you so against a post-mortem?”

“Oh, I'm not!” Randall assured her. “I was merely looking at it from your point of view.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, my sweet, yours, and Guy's, and Aunt Harriet's, and even my clever Aunt Zoë's. You ought all of you to be very thankful for uncle's timely decease. I do not like to see you looking a gift horse in the mouth. Could you not have induced your obliging medical friend to have signed the death certificate, Stella darling?”

She flushed. “Dr Fielding was perfectly ready to sign the certificate without any persuasion from me. None of us wanted to start a scandal except Aunt Gertrude.”

“Of course we didn't,” corroborated Guy. “In fact, I said everything I could to stop it.”

“Then do not assume a pious attitude now, little cousin,” said Randall. “Believe me, it is nauseating.”

Miss Matthews, who had been opening and shutting her mouth in the manner of one awaiting an opportunity to enter into the conversation, suddenly exclaimed: “How dare you say that I wanted Gregory to die? I never even thought of such a thing! I may not have been very fond of him, but—” She broke off as Randall's smile grew, and said, trembling: “You are insufferable! just like your father!”