Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hannasyde 02

by Here's Poison Behold

  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 God, 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.” … Self-possessed! 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 snatched 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, damn you, shut up!’ said Stella crossly. ‘What is it you want?’

  A laugh floated to her ears. ‘Only that, darling.’

  ‘Then go to hell!’ 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, pronounced 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 assassin.’

  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’ Pass-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 Pass-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 Pawnbroker’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 Pass-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 B
rown 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.

  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.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Matthews,’ he said, ‘but I think you may be able to help me.’

  ‘How gratifying!’ said Randall. ‘Let me give you a glass of sherry.’

  ‘Thank you, but I won’t take anything just now. Does the name of Hyde convey anything to you?’

  Randall poured himself out a glass of sherry, and replaced the stopper in the decanter. ‘Well – parks,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give me time,’ said Randall, picking up his wineglass. ‘Stevenson?’ he suggested.

  ‘Nothing else, Mr Matthews?’ Hannasyde asked, watching him closely.

  Randall met the steady gaze with one of his blandest looks. ‘Well, not just at the moment,’ he said. ‘Do you want to pursue the subject? Because if so I’m afraid you’ll have to explain things to me. I don’t seem to be very intelligent this morning.’

  ‘You don’t happen to recall having heard your uncle mention that name at any time?’ Hannasyde persisted.

  Randall continued to look at him over the rim of his wineglass. ‘No, I can’t say that I do,’ he replied. He strolled over to a chair, and sat down on the arm of it. ‘Will you have a cigarette, or a nice game of Blind Man’s Bluff ?’ he inquired.

  Hannasyde accepted the cigarette. ‘I’m disappointed, Mr Matthews. I hoped that you might be able to throw some light on this little problem. I have been going through your uncle’s Bank books.’ He struck a match, and held it to the end of his cigarette. ‘And I find that quite a substantial part of his income has apparently been derived from a person going by the name of John Hyde. Or, possibly, from some business of which Hyde is the representative.’

  Randall sipped his sherry. Nothing but a faint interest could be read in his face. He said: ‘When you speak of a substantial part, what precisely do you mean, Superintendent?’

  ‘I haven’t added all the sums together, but at a guess I should say they must amount to something in the region of twelve or thirteen hundred pounds a year.’

  Randall inclined his head with an expression of mild surprise. ‘Quite a respectable income,’ he remarked. ‘May I ask how it was paid into my uncle’s account?’

  ‘By cheque,’ replied Hannasyde. ‘And at regular monthly intervals, though not in regular amounts.’ He thrust his hand into his inner coat-pocket, and pulled out Gregory Matthews’ Pass-book. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself.’

  ‘I think I should,’ said Randall, setting down his wineglass and taking the book.

  Silence reigned while Randall went unhurriedly through the book. Then he gave it back to Hannasyde, and said: ‘I feel quite unable to throw any of the expected light, Superintendent. What are your views on the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know that I have any,’ answered Hannasyde. ‘You must remember that I was not acquainted with your uncle. That is why I come to you. I suppose you knew him as well as anybody, Mr Matthews?’

  ‘I haven’t considered the question,’ said Randall. ‘Moreover, I believe I told you at the outset of our agreeable dealings with each other that I was not in my uncle’s confidence.’

  ‘You did,’ agreed Hannasyde. ‘But I can’t help suspecting that you were over-modest. You were the only member of his family, I believe, to whom he imparted his discovery of Mr Lupton’s double life.’

  ‘Do you call that a confidence?’ inquired Randall. ‘I thought it was a smutty story.’

  ‘Well, let us waive the question of confidences, Mr Matthews, and say that there was a bond of sympathy between you,’ suggested Hannasyde.

  As he spoke he caught a glimpse of Randall’s eyes, and experienced a sensation of shock. What the expression in them meant he had no time to decide: it was gone in a flash, but it left him feeling oddly shaken, and with an impression forcibly stamped on his mind that something very unpleasant had suddenly sprung up and as suddenly vanished again.

  Then Randall said in his composed drawl: ‘No, I don’t think there was any bond of sympathy between us. You have possibly been misled by the fact that alone of my family I didn’t quarrel with him.’
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  ‘Come, Mr Matthews!’ said Hannasyde persuasively. ‘Why can’t you be frank with me? Whether there was sympathy between you or not, I think you know more of him than you have told me. On the question of these cheques from John Hyde, for instance: do you ask me to believe that you, the heir to your uncle’s property, are ignorant of the source of part of his income?’

  ‘No,’ said Randall, ‘but it is nevertheless true.’ He rose and strolled over to the table, and refilled his glass. ‘The varying amounts, coupled with the regular appearance of the cheques, would lead one to suppose that my uncle was amusing himself with some business venture which he preferred to keep his name out of. It will probably come to light in due course.’

  ‘In fact, you don’t set much store by it, Mr Matthews?’

  Randall shrugged. ‘No, I can’t say that I do. To tell you the truth, I think you are wasting your time in looking for John Hyde. His significance in the case seems to me to be somewhat obscure.’

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Hannasyde. ‘But when I come across something that calls for an explanation I find it pays to follow it up, however trivial it may appear. I have already made some inquiries into Hyde’s identity, both at his Bank and at his only known address.’

  ‘I hope such painstaking industry was suitably rewarded?’

  ‘I think it was,’ said Hannasyde imperturbably. ‘I find that John Hyde describes himself as an agent, and owns a squalid little house in Gadsby Row, in the City, with a newsagent’s shop attached. The property is apparently let to a man called Brown, who owns the shop, but one room has been retained by Hyde for his own use.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Randall.

  ‘The fact that a man who is in a position to make large monetary payments each month should have as his only address an office in a shabby back-street strikes me as being sufficiently unusual to call for further investigation. What do you think, Mr Matthews?’