Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Behold, Here's Poison
Behold, Here's Poison
Behold, Here's Poison
Ebook322 pages5 hours

Behold, Here's Poison

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

4/5

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Meet the Matthews… before the next one dies

It's no ordinary morning at the Poplars—the master is found dead in his bed, and it seems his high blood pressure was not the cause. When an autopsy reveals a sinister poison in his body, it's up to the quietly resourceful Inspector Hannasyde to catch the murderer in time to spare the next victim. But every single member of the quarrelsome Matthews family has a motive and none, of course, has an alibi.

"The ingredients are so well and carefully mixed, the writing is so bright, and the solution so unexpected that the book achieves success and remains one no reader can fail to enjoy."—Manchester Guardian

"A marvelous mélange of malice, murder, mystery, and mirth. Priceless!"—Saturday Review

LanguageEnglish
PublisherSourcebooks
Release dateFeb 1, 2009
ISBN9781402227073
Behold, Here's Poison
Author

Georgette Heyer

Georgette Heyer's novels have charmed and delighted millions of readers for decades. English Heritage has awarded Georgette Heyer one of their prestigious Blue Plaques, designating her Wimbledon home as the residence of an important figure in British history. She was born in Wimbledon in August 1902. She wrote her first novel, The Black Moth, at the age of seventeen to amuse her convalescent brother; it was published in 1921 and became an instant success. Heyer published 56 books over the next 53 years, until her death from lung cancer in 1974. Her last book, My Lord John, was published posthumously in 1975. A very private woman, she rarely reached out to the public to discuss her works or personal life. Her work included Regency romances, mysteries and historical fiction. Known as the Queen of Regency romance, Heyer was legendary for her research, historical accuracy and her extraordinary plots and characterizations. She was married to George Ronald Rougier, a barrister, and they had one son, Richard.

Read more from Georgette Heyer

Related to Behold, Here's Poison

Titles in the series (12)

View More

Related ebooks

Related articles

Reviews for Behold, Here's Poison

Rating: 3.8147409561752985 out of 5 stars
4/5

251 ratings23 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Nothing can be said about the plot without giving away the solution, but the airy persiflage is outstanding, and the role of Regency Cad is well-played by one of the men.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Did grumpy old Uncle Gregory die from a stroke, brought on by high blood pressure and over-rich food, or was he poisoned? If the latter, who did the unpleasant deed?

    This novel is set in 1930s upper-class England, contemporary fiction of the time. Georgette Heyer's detective stories don't have such clever plotting as Agatha Christie's, but their characterisation is always very well done. This book brings in the intelligent Superintendent Hannasyde who has featured in various other of Heyer's crime novels, and his sidekick, Inspector Hemmingway. The pair are frequently foiled in their investigations, not just by the lack of clues but by the prevarication of Uncle Gregory's family. Most of them had plenty of motivation to bump him off, but insufficient expertise or, indeed, opportunity.

    Just when it seems that the crime may never be solved, another one is committed, which confuses everyone still more and causes the domestic staff to give notice. I was pleased that I managed to figure out what had happened to cause the second crime before any of the characters did, but had not guessed the identity of the perpetrator. The ending, when it came, was rather sudden and abrupt, and while it made sense, it didn't give the satisfaction that the final resolution of a Christie book usually does.

    Still, as a piece of social history and some nice characterisation, I thought it a good book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Georgette Heyer, queen of the historical romance, here uses her well-regarded talent for creating believable characters to present her readers with a cozy mystery that isn't so cozy. Behold, Here's Poison, published in 1936, is a murder mystery set in an English country manor—complete with a passel of unpleasant relatives, talkative servants, suspicious policemen, and red herrings. When the master at the Poplars, Gregory Matthews, is found dead one morning in his bed, his family is divided; some are sure his death resulted from high blood pressure and indigestion, while others positively insist on a postmortem. Gregory Matthews was not a kind man, and when the postmortem reveals that he died by poison, almost every family member has a plausible motive for doing him in. It's up to Inspector Hannasyde to comb through Matthews' tangled affairs and try to catch the murderer... before someone else dies.What a set of thoroughly unlikeable people Heyer creates! It was hard to build any kind of liking for the characters; they are all selfish in their own ways. Some express it in habitual insincerity (oh what a faithful likeness Heyer paints of someone I know with this trait!), while others are just plain malicious. Apparently the best trait possible among such a set of reprobates is to be interesting. Stella is all right and one begins, rather grudgingly, to wonder if even Randall has his good points, but I'd be hard pressed to point out anyone who could be called a hero or heroine. And maybe that's more realistic anyways, given human nature. Overall, I enjoyed this mystery, though I couldn't be shut of the characters quickly enough. No one will ever be able to challenge Heyer in the execution of sharp and witty dialogue, but after the amusement fades there isn't much else to return to in this story. The characters are brilliantly drawn, but on the whole pretty odious. I don't think I'd like to know any of them in real life, and I find I've been spoiled by the type of mysteries in which you always have someone to root for, even if your enthusiasm is clouded by the uncertainty of whether or not your favorite will turn out to be the dastardly murderer. But at least you have a favorite in that type of mystery. Like most of Heyer's readers, I prefer the historical novels, but I do plan to read the rest of her mysteries.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    "Behold, Here's Poison" is the first mystery of Georgette Heyer I have read. Written in 1936, it is set in England in 1936. Part of the charm of the book is the accurate feeling of the period. It begins quickly, with a novel introduction of the main characters by the maid. Then the murder occurs, and then the Inspector Hannasyde shows up. Each character has suspicion cast upon him or her in turn and is seemingly cleared. The pieces do not come together until the end, when the true murderer is revealed. The other charming quality of the book is the use of humor. Oh, and there is a surprising romance that develops between two of the main characters. That is the one similarity with her Regency novels.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The mystery is ingenious - and the actual villain came out of left field for me. However, the characters were a trifle flat. I don't know whether it was a remnant of memory of a previous read, or just because it was a Heyer - but when the sarcastic, nasty character showed up I pegged him immediately for the romantic lead - which made a lot of his dancing around rather silly. The rest seemed rather stereotypical, though they did stick to their characters - the fluffy-brained idiot kept to her lines throughout, in particular. I do like Randall (though he's occasionally too clever for his own good) and it was nice to see Giles again. Superintendent Hannasyde seemed to spend most of the book running to catch up. He did make a few discoveries that no one else did (chiefly through patient police procedure), but was beaten to the punch at the crucial times - playing Watson at best and Lestrade at worst. Not bad, not a favorite.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Can we say "obstruction of justice", thought you could. Today this would have got dealt with in a different way (I'd kinda like Randall to meet Peter Grant for a few rounds of debate). Still this is from a different time and a different way of policing.No-one really misses Dear Old Uncle Gregory when he dies and when it's discovered that it was murder a fractured family find more cracks. The over-confident of his own smarts Randall rubs everyone up the wrong way in order to sit back and watch sparks fly while Inspector Hannasyde tries to discover the truth. The obvious culprit is someone in the family, but who, and why, everyone has a reason but also an alibi.Then another member dies...It's an interesting read, a classic period detective story with some horrible people and a hero who could be truly horrible, along with a romance that seemed to come out of no-where. Still the family was well drawn and I found them believable.The narration wasn't very standout but I didn't find that it got in the way of the story.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I decided to read this, as I have loved other books by this author.The characters were uninteresting, despicable, and I gave up after trying several time to finish it. Sorry, life is too short and there are too many books waiting to be read to waste time on something I don't like.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Can't say I was overfond of this one: the characters were all pretty awful, even if the resolution of the mystery was quite good. 
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is a book I should have enjoyed more than I did. The dialog between characters is scathing, often hilarious in a ‘I can’t believe he/she said that out loud’ kind of way, and the murder was clever and the karma both just and tragic. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, so much as I think I might have been better off choosing something else at that moment, with the result that I was impatient with the reading of it. It’s a weird place to be when you’re reading thinking this is good and are we done yet? at the same time.Heyer’s strong point in writing wasn’t her detectives; Hannasyde is flat and Hemingway needs to switch to decaf, but the rest of the cast of characters are all vividly written, and as I said, the dialog scorching. Mrs. Lupton came on the scene with a speech that had me laughing and wanting to stand and applaud and the rest of the case all have a shot at each other at least once or twice.The romance, arguably Heyer’s raison d’être, just … failed. To put those two together with so little development or subtlety makes me wonder if Heyer hated these characters and wanted them so suffer. I mean, there’s playful verbal sparring, and there’s what these two were doing. Me? I don’t find anything romantic about being called a little idiot.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Entertaining.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    So far I've determined that Miss Heyer has a type and he's generally very well dressed.

    I read this years and years ago but didn't recollect it until the method of murder was revealed.

    I expect if you like Wimsey, you'll like this. I'm a little bit over slightly wet young women, though.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I liked the earlier Heyer mysteries I've read much more than this one. My lack of enthusiasm is in some part due to the writing but also due to the very poor audio book version I listened to. The reader made unlikeable characters even more so. Indeed, his rendition of Randall made him so very unlikeable that the already thin romantic sub-plot was made totally unbelievable. I found it fairly easy to work out the identity of the murderer, but not the details of why the murder was committed, so I had a reason to listen through to the end!! I haven't read all of Heyer's mysteries, but of those I have read I think that this is the weakest so far.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Not exactly a _pleasant_ Heyer. Few, if any, of the main characters have redeeming qualities although few have the type of character flaws that make one banish people from one's circle. They are all, to some degree or another, narcissists. None of them have grand visions and none care for much other than their own personal comfort.The murder itself is both distinctly clever and yet carried off in a way that a careful reader should be able to get a hint of the correct solution. As a murder mystery it is low key and almost action free. As a puzzle it is fair. As a portrait of a class that will be almost wiped out by the Second World War an interesting case study,
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Georgette Heyer, queen of the historical romance, here uses her well-regarded talent for creating believable characters to present her readers with a cozy mystery that isn't so cozy. Behold, Here's Poison, published in 1936, is a murder mystery set in an English country manor—complete with a passel of unpleasant relatives, talkative servants, suspicious policemen, and red herrings. When the master at the Poplars, Gregory Matthews, is found dead one morning in his bed, his family is divided; some are sure his death resulted from high blood pressure and indigestion, while others positively insist on a postmortem. Gregory Matthews was not a kind man, and when the postmortem reveals that he died by poison, almost every family member has a plausible motive for doing him in. It's up to Inspector Hannasyde to comb through Matthews' tangled affairs and try to catch the murderer... before someone else dies.What a set of thoroughly unlikeable people Heyer creates! It was hard to build any kind of liking for the characters; they are all selfish in their own ways. Some express it in habitual insincerity (oh what a faithful likeness Heyer paints of someone I know with this trait!), while others are just plain malicious. Apparently the best trait possible among such a set of reprobates is to be interesting. Stella is all right and one begins, rather grudgingly, to wonder if even Randall has his good points, but I'd be hard pressed to point out anyone who could be called a hero or heroine. And maybe that's more realistic anyways, given human nature. Overall, I enjoyed this mystery, though I couldn't be shut of the characters quickly enough. No one will ever be able to challenge Heyer in the execution of sharp and witty dialogue, but after the amusement fades there isn't much else to return to in this story. The characters are brilliantly drawn, but on the whole pretty odious. I don't think I'd like to know any of them in real life, and I find I've been spoiled by the type of mysteries in which you always have someone to root for, even if your enthusiasm is clouded by the uncertainty of whether or not your favorite will turn out to be the dastardly murderer. But at least you have a favorite in that type of mystery. Like most of Heyer's readers, I prefer the historical novels, but I do plan to read the rest of her mysteries.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    When the master of the Poplars is found dead, most of the family and even the doctor believe it to be natural causes, but Aunt Gertrude insists upon an autopsy where poison is discovered. Of course, the evidence had been cleared away by the time it became a police case, so Supt. Hannasyde and Inspector Hemingway have little evidence on which to build their case. The question the family and the doctor and while there are plenty of motives, there is nothing which puts the suspicion on any one member above another. Will they be able to solve a seemingly unsolvable murder? Plenty of motives; plenty of red herrings. Most mystery buffs will be able to spot the truth before it is revealed, but it's still an enjoyable read. There is a reference to a previous book, Death in the Stocks, so those who have not read that earlier book should probably begin with it to see why this case reminds Inspector Hemingway of that one.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I am not going to summarize this book as you can read it's summary elsewhere. I will say that I found it to be a delightful read, if you are a fan of the classic English mystery novel. I found this book to be particularly enjoying because the protagonist is not your typical "hero", even though he does solve the mystery and get the girl in the end!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I'm not a fan of Ms Heyer's regency romances, but I have enjoyed her mysteries. In this book, the tyrannical patriarch of a family is discovered dead in his bed. While his sister, sister-in-law, niece and nephew who live with him believe he must have died of a heart attack in his sleep and his doctor declares he died of natural causes, his other sister who comes over, takes one look at him and demands a postmortem, much to the alarm and horror of the rest of the family. The heir is loathed by all in the family for being irreverent and rude. But is he all that he seems? The results of the postmortem indicate that death was the result of poison. But how was it administered and who could have done it. Our Inspector Hannasyde is baffled at the lack of clues. There is no shortage of suspects ... it seems everyone had a reason to want dear old Uncle dead. In building the case, Ms Heyer keeps us guessing right until the last couple of pages.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This murder mystery was so much fun! I happen to be partial to Heyer's mysteries, and this was the perfect comfort read for me. The Matthews are a dysfunctional family with lots of eccentric characters. The family head is murdered and everyone's worst qualities are brought to light. Secrets are revealed. Attachments are formed and broken. Everything is chaotic, and no one knows who to trust. Inspector Hannasyde is on the case, but he is not the focus of the plot. The scenes are all stolen by members of this crazy family. I loved the piously hypocritical widow, the cheapskate spinster, and the snakelike elder cousin. In typical Heyer fashion, the characters are memorable and amusing.Recommended for those who love old fashioned murder mysteries with great characters.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The Poplars is a country house on a heath somewhere outside London. Its inhabitants include the typical victim and suspects - an aging patriarch who controls the purse strings and thus is the only thing standing in the way of happiness for an assortment of tiresome relatives, including a spinster sister, a hypochondriac sister-in-law, and a niece and nephew with no useful skills. It's no surprise when the sudden death of the patriarch is found to be murder. The family occupies center stage in the novel, while the police inspectors are somewhat minor characters. I worked out the solution fairly easily, although the author supplied plenty of red herrings. She didn't quite play fair, though. Part of the method/motive was mentioned only in the final revelation. (Maybe the clue was so subtle that I missed it, but I did go back and check.) Although it's not the best of is genre, English country house mystery fans may find it a pleasant diversion for an idle evening.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    At the heart of this novel is a wonderously dysfunctional family. There's a spinster aunt, who initially blames Gregory Matthew's death on the roast duck he had for dinner, but Gregory was murdered. The household also includes a widowed valetudinarian sister-in-law and her two children. Another, overbearing, sister lives close by with her hen-pecked husband and then there's nephew, and heir, Randall, whose sharp wit and humour are superb. They all had a motive to murder Gregory and its up to Superintended Hannasyde to discover the truth, which of course he does. Wonderful.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Cousin Randall is a snake, but he's the only one with sense in the family when Uncle Gregory is found to have been poisoned. The rest of the relatives panic, running in all directions and implicating one another with alarming ease and rapidity. Heyer's mystery is a classic British murder infused with a delightful wit; modern readers may however feel the basic plot is hackneyed, not realizing that Heyer was among the first to execute it so successfully.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Most of you are aware of my love for Georgette Heyer, so it's probably no surprise that I couldn't resist trying out one of her mystery novels. And let me tell you, I was not disappointed! I do believe that this woman could make a grocery list read witty!Behold, Here's Poison is an entertaining little murder mystery with a "Clue" sort of vibe to it. The characters are a little wacky, but in a delightful and amusing way. There's the outrageously thrifty Miss Matthews, moocher extraordinaire Mrs. Matthews and her spawn...and then there's Mr. Randall Matthews, newly made head of the family. I fell in love with his quick tongue and smart remarks...made me laugh out loud a few times, drawing odd looks from my husband!Thanks to Danielle at Sourcebooks for the opportunity to read such a great book! I truly enjoyed it and I think you will too!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A delightful mystery in the classic style of the great writers of the genre.I recomend it to all fans of Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Dorothy Sayers, and Michael Innes, to name but a few.Without disclosing the plot (it would not be fair, would it?), I will just say that the story gets more and more interesting as the narration proceeds, until it culminates in the final revelation. The characters are well drawn, some likeable, others not.Go ahead! Read it, and enjoy yourself.

Book preview

Behold, Here's Poison - Georgette Heyer

ALSO BY GEORGETTE HEYER

A Blunt Instrument

Death in the Stocks

Detection Unlimited

Duplicate Death

Envious Casca

Footsteps in the Dark

No Wind of Blame

Penhallow

They Found Him Dead

The Unfinished Clue

Why Shoot a Butler?

Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

You are just one click away from…

• Being the first to hear about author happenings

• VIP deals and steals

• Exclusive giveaways

• Free bonus content

• Early access to interactive activities

• Sneak peeks at our newest titles

Happy reading!

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 1936 by Georgette Rougier

Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Eileen Cary

Cover image © The Advertising Archives, McKevin/Getty Images

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

sourcebooks.com

Originally published in 1936 by Hodder & Stoughton, an imprint of Hachette. This edition issued based on the paperback edition published in 2009 by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Heyer, Georgette.

Behold, here’s poison / Georgette Heyer.

p. cm.

1. Hannasyde, Inspector (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Police--England--Fiction. 3. England--Fiction. I. Title.

PR6015.E795B4 2009

823’.912--dc22

2008037626

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

An Excerpt from No Wind of Blame

About the Author

Back Cover

One

It was going to be a fine day. There was a white mist curling away in wreaths over the Heath that told Mary, standing on the half-landing with the dustpan in her hand, and gazing out through the tall window, that it would be sunny and really warm by lunch-time. She would be able to wear the blue voile after all, in spite of Rose’s gloomy forebodings. Rose said that it always rained on anybody’s half-day. Well, it wasn’t going to rain today, not if Mary knew the signs.

She leaned up against the window, watching the mist, approving the heavy dew that lay like a grey sheet over the lawn in front of the house.

It was early. The Heath, which later on would be scattered over with children, and nurses pushing perambulators, seemed quite deserted, nor was there any traffic upon the road that lay between the iron gates of the Poplars and the edge of the Heath. Craning her neck, Mary could obtain a glimpse of the next-door house through a gap in the trees. Curtains still drawn on the back stairs, she noted. Well, she didn’t blame the girls at Holly Lodge, she was sure. If your master and mistress went away to the seaside you were entitled to take your ease. Not but what those girls were a lazy lot of sluts, come to think of it. Common, too. Like mistress like maid, said Rose, and that was true enough. She wasn’t any class, Mrs Rumbold.

Mary turned her head, transferring her gaze from Holly Lodge to the house on the other side of the Poplars. It was a smaller house, and she could not see much of it, but she noticed that the garage doors were open. That meant that the doctor had been called out early. It was a shame the way people sent for the doctor at all hours, and half the time for nothing more serious than an attack of indigestion, so Miss Stella said. A real gentleman he was, too, and ever so handsome! She didn’t wonder at Miss Stella being sweet on him. It was a pity the Master had taken such a dislike to him. For they all knew in the servants’ hall that he had, just as they knew about the trouble with Mr Guy, who wanted money for that queer business he ran with that Mr Brooke, and whom the Master wanted to send off to South America. You’d have to be a pretty fool if you didn’t know most of what was going on in this house, what with the Master going in off the deep end and the doctor being called in for his blood-pressure; and Miss Harriet coming out with bits of talk to anybody, even the kitchen maid; Mrs Matthews taking to her bed because of all the worry about poor Mr Guy; and Mr Guy himself talking it all over with Miss Stella without so much as bothering to see if anyone was listening. Oh no, there were precious few secrets at the Poplars! Too many people cooped up together, thought Mary, vigorously sweeping the last six stairs. It never did to have two families under the same roof: there was bound to be a lot of squabbling, especially when you got an old girl like Miss Harriet behaving sometimes as though she was downright simple, and at other times showing you she was as sharp as a needle, and as mean as – Mary couldn’t think of anything as mean as Miss Harriet. Potty, that’s what she was. You’d only got to see her collecting all the little bits of soap left over, and using them up herself, just as though she hadn’t a penny to bless herself with. Regular old magpie, she was. Now, Mrs Matthews wasn’t like that, give her her due. She was a nuisance all right, what with her glasses of hot water, and trays up to her room, but she wasn’t one to go poking her nose into store-cupboards. You didn’t really mind running round after Mrs Matthews, waiting on her hand and foot like she expected, because she always spoke nicely, and behaved like a lady. Nor you didn’t mind Miss Stella, neither, in spite of the way she never put anything away, and was always wanting you to do things for her which weren’t your work at all, properly speaking. And Mr Guy was that handsome it was a pleasure to wait on him. But when it came to Miss Harriet and the Master things were different. It was queer them being brother and sister, thought Mary, going slowly upstairs again to collect all the shoes which had been put out to be cleaned. Not a bit alike, they weren’t. Mrs Lupton, now, from Fairview, over the other side of the Heath, you’d know anywhere for the Master’s sister. She had the same domineering ways, though you weren’t scared of her like you were scared of the Master. With the Master things had to be just as he wanted them, or there was trouble, and when the Master was angry you felt as though your knees were stuffed with cotton-wool. They were all of them scared of him, reflected Mary, picking up his shoes from outside his bedroom-door; even Mrs Matthews, though if anyone could get round him she could.

Mrs Matthews’s shoes were the next to be collected, high-heeled, expensive shoes with Bond Street written all over them, thought Mary, pausing to admire them. The money Mrs Matthews must spend on her clothes! That was a sure sign she knew how to manage the Master, because it was common knowledge that her husband (him as was the Master’s youngest brother) had left her pretty badly off. Good job for her she was so nice-looking and attractive, because though you couldn’t ever call the Master mean you wouldn’t catch him providing for a sister-in-law he didn’t like, having her and her children to live with him, and all.

Yes, and didn’t it get under Miss Harriet’s skin, them being in the house and behaving as though money was no object like they did, thought Mary, picking up Miss Matthews’s low-heeled, trodden-over shoes of black glacé, and tucking them under her arm. There wasn’t much love lost between her and Mrs Matthews, though to do her justice the old skinflint seemed to like Mr Guy and Miss Stella well enough.

Suède shoes outside Mr Guy’s door; smart, they were, but a nuisance to clean. She’d have to do them, she supposed, because the under-gardener would be sure to put polish on them by mistake.

And lastly Miss Stella’s shoes, two pairs of them, the brogues she wore on the Heath, and the blue kid shoes she went to town in.

She put all the shoes in her apron, and carried them down the back stairs to the scullery. Cook, Mrs Beecher, was in the kitchen, and called her in for a cup of tea. It made all the difference to you, thought Mary, being in a place where the cook was good-tempered. She went into the kitchen, and took her place at the table between Beecher and Rose. Rose was sitting with her elbows on the table, and her cup between her hands, eagerly recounting what had passed between the Master and Miss Stella in the library last night.

‘…And then he told her straight he wouldn’t have Dr Fielding making up to her under his roof. The names he called the doctor you wouldn’t believe! And then he said that bit I told you, about the doctor being a fool with no prospects, and if you ask me it was that which set Mrs Matthews against the doctor, because against him she is, and no one’ll make me believe different.’

‘You didn’t ought to listen to what wasn’t meant for your ears,’ said Mrs Beecher.

‘It does seem a shame about the doctor and Miss Stella,’ said Mary. ‘I am sure no one could be more gentlemanlike.’

‘Ah, there’s more to it than that,’ replied Beecher, passing his cup across to his wife. ‘They say he’s a bit fond of the bottle. Not that I’ve ever seen him the worse for wear myself, but there’s no smoke without a fire.’

‘That I won’t believe!’ declared Mrs Beecher roundly. ‘And what’s more I’m surprised at you mentioning it, Beecher!’

Rose, avidly absorbing this fresh piece of scandal, said: ‘There you are, then! and no wonder Mrs Matthews had one of her nerve-attacks! When I saw her I thought to myself at once –’

‘Then you thought wrong,’ interposed Mrs Beecher repressively. ‘I haven’t ever held with Mrs Matthews’s nerves, and no more I ever shall, but if she had an attack, which I doubt, it wasn’t along of Miss Stella whom she doesn’t care two pins for, if you was to ask me, but because of Mr Guy being shipped off to Brazil.’

‘Oh, the Master isn’t ever going to do that, not really, is he?’ exclaimed Mary, aghast.

‘So I believe,’ said Mrs Beecher, rising ponderously and moving towards the stove. ‘Not that I’m one for nosing into other people’s business, but I had it from Miss Harriet as long ago as last Thursday. It’s time the Early Teas went up. Hand me over the caddy, Rose, there’s a good girl.’

Rose complied with this request, and stood waiting while Mrs Beecher filled three little teapots, and one glass tumbler in a silver holder. ‘You might carry Miss Stella’s tray up for me, dear,’ said Rose to Mary, receiving the tumbler of hot water from Mrs Beecher, and placing it upon a small tray.

Mary finished her own tea in two gulps, and got up. She had her own work to do, and plenty of it, but if you were only an under-housemaid it paid you to keep in with the upper servants. She picked up Miss Stella’s tray, and followed Rose up the back stairs, Beecher bringing up the rear with the Master’s and Mr Guy’s trays poised on his capable hands.

Miss Stella was not awake, and, as usual, she had left her clothes scattered about the floor. Mary drew back the curtains, tidied the clothes, and slipped out of the room again. Miss Stella wouldn’t thank you for waking her.

Mr Guy’s tray was reposing on the table in the hall, and Rose was still in Mrs Matthews’s room. Mary could hear Mrs Matthews’s slightly plaintive voice raised behind the shut door. She was just about to go and fill the hot-water cans, when the door of the Master’s room opened, and Beecher came out rather quickly.

Mary stared at him. There was a queer, scared look on his face. ‘Anything wrong, Mr Beecher?’ she asked.

He passed his tongue between his lips, and answered in a shaken voice: ‘Yes. It’s the Master. He’s dead.’

Her lips parted, but she could find nothing to say. A kaleidoscope of impressions flashed through her brain. It was shocking, awful, and yet thrilling. There might be an inquest. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it; she wouldn’t be out of it for worlds.

Rose came out of Mrs Matthews’s room. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘Anyone would think there was no work to be done in this house! Where are my cans?’

Mary found her voice. ‘Oh, Rose!’ she faltered. ‘The Master’s dead!’

‘Somebody’s got to tell Them,’ said Beecher, glancing at the four shut doors. ‘I don’t know who.’

Rose solved this problem for him. She broke into noisy tears, not because she had been fond of the Master, or disliked the thought of a death in the house, but because she was startled. The sound of her hysterical sobs brought the ready tears to Mary’s eyes too. It also brought Miss Matthews out into the hall, with her grey hair in curlers, and an aged flannel dressing-gown huddled round her. She had forgotten her glasses, and she peered shortsightedly at the group before her.

‘What is the matter? Rose – is that you, Rose? Disgraceful! If you’ve broken any of the china it will come out of your wages, and it’s no use crying about it. The breakages in this house –’

‘Oh, madam!’ gulped Mary. ‘Oh, madam, it’s the Master!’

The door next to Miss Matthews’s opened. Stella stood yawning on the threshold in peach silk pyjamas, and with her short hair ruffled up like a halo about her face. ‘What on earth’s all the row about?’ she inquired fretfully.

‘Stella! Your dressing-gown!’ exclaimed her aunt.

‘I’m all right. Oh, do shut up, Rose! What is it?’

Both maids were now sobbing gustily. Beecher said: ‘It’s the Master, miss. He’s dead.’

Miss Matthews gave a shriek, but Stella, staring at Beecher for a moment, said: ‘Rot! I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true, miss. He’s – he’s cold.’

Somehow that seemed funny. Stella gave an uncertain giggle.

Her aunt said: ‘How you can stand there and laugh – ! I’m sure I don’t understand you modern girls, and what is more I don’t want to. Not that I believe a word of it. I shall go and see for myself. Where are my glasses? Mary! my glasses!’

‘I’ll go,’ said Stella, walking across the hall.

‘Stella, not in your pyjamas!’ screamed Miss Matthews.

Stella began to laugh again, trying to stifle the unbecoming sound by biting her lips.

Her uncle’s room was in the front of the house, separated from his sister-in-law’s by a bathroom. Beecher had drawn back the curtains, and set the early morning tea-tray down on a table beside the bed. It was evident, even to Stella, looking on death for the first time, that Gregory Matthews would never drink tea again.

He was lying on his back in an uncomfortably rigid attitude, his arms tossed outside the bedclothes, the fingers gripping the sheet as though in a last convulsion. His eyes were open, the pupils contracted. Stella stood looking down at him, her face slowly whitening. She heard her aunt’s querulous voice, her footstep in the hall, and moved towards the door. ‘I say, Aunt Harriet!’ she said jerkily. ‘Don’t come! It’s beastly!’

Miss Matthews, however, fastening her pince-nez on her nose with trembling hands, pushed past her niece into the room, and walked up to the bed. ‘Oh, he’s dead!’ she said superfluously, and recoiled. ‘It’s his blood-pressure. I knew it would happen! He ought never to have eaten that duck, and it’s no use anyone blaming me, because I ordered cutlets for him, and if he wouldn’t eat them nobody can say it was my fault. Oh dear, oh dear, he does look dreadful! I wish he hadn’t gone like that. We may have had our differences, but blood’s thicker than water, say what you will! And you’d never think it, but he was a dear little boy! Oh, whatever are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stella, taking her arm, and pulling her towards the door. ‘Let’s get out of this room, anyway. Oh, Aunt, don’t, for God’s sake!’

Miss Matthews allowed herself to be led away, but continued to weep. Stella, unable to feel that Gregory Matthews’s nature when a little boy could compensate her aunt for all the subsequent years of strife, was impatient of this facile grief, and thankfully gave her into Mary’s charge.

Rose, still gulping, quavered a message from Mrs Matthews: Miss Stella was to go to her mother at once.

Mrs Matthews was reclining against her pillows in a most becoming bed-jacket, and had evidently had the presence of mind to wipe the expensive night-cream from her face, and apply a dusting of powder. She turned her head as Stella came into the room, and held out a wavering hand. ‘Oh, my dear child!’ she said in an extinguished voice. ‘Poor Gregory! It has given me a terrible shock. I had a feeling when Rose brought my hot-water.’

‘Aunt Harriet says it must have been the duck he ate for dinner,’ said Stella, still on the verge of a giggle.

Mrs Matthews gave a faint, pained sigh. ‘No one knows dear Harriet’s good points better than I do,’ she remarked, ‘but one can’t help being a little sad that her first thoughts in face of a thing like this should be still of mundane things. Do you know, darling, that when Rose told me what had happened I could only think of those beautiful words: God’s ways are –

‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted Stella hastily. ‘But the point is what ought we to do? Aunt Harriet’s having a sort of hysterical fit. Shall I call Guy?’

‘Poor Guy!’ said his mother. ‘One would give one’s all to keep tragedy away from the young. Somehow –’

‘Well, if it comes to that I’m three years younger than Guy,’ Stella pointed out. ‘Not that I think he’ll be much use, but –’

Mrs Matthews laid a hand on hers and pressed it. ‘Dearest, not that flippant tone, please! Try to remember that the Shadow of Death is over this house. And Guy is far, far more highly strung than you are, dear.’

‘Oh, Mother, do stop!’ implored Stella. ‘Honestly, I don’t want to have hysterics, but I shall in a minute. What ought we to do first?’

Mrs Matthews removed her hand. ‘My practical little daughter! Where should we poor Marys of this world be, I wonder, without our Marthas? And yet one does somehow yearn for just a little time to be quiet, to face our loss, before we plunge into the sordid side of what ought not to be sordid at all, but very, very beautiful.’

Stella gave a gasp, and went off into a fit of strangled laughter. In the middle of this her brother walked into the room, looking tousled and a little dazed still with sleep. ‘I s-say!’ he stammered. ‘Uncle’s dead! Did you know? Beecher’s locked the room, and gone to ring up Fielding. He says there’s absolutely no doubt.’

‘Hush, dear!’ said Mrs Matthews. ‘Stella, try to control yourself! A doctor should of course be sent for, but one shrinks, somehow, from the thought of Dr Fielding, whom your uncle disliked, coming at such a moment. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, and I suppose there is no help for it, but –’

‘I can’t see that it matters in the least,’ said Guy. He grasped the rail at the foot of his mother’s bed, and stood looking down at her with bright, uncomprehending eyes. ‘I can’t grasp it!’ he announced. ‘I mean, Uncle’s dying like that. Of course, everybody expected it in a way, I suppose. I mean, his blood-pressure. What do you think he died of? Do you suppose it was apoplexy? I always thought he’d have apoplexy sooner or later, didn’t you, Stella? Will there have to be an inquest? I don’t see why there should be, do you? I mean, everyone knows he had a weak heart. It’s obvious he died of it.’

‘Yes, dear, but we won’t talk of it now,’ Mrs Matthews said repressively. ‘You are upset, and you let your tongue run away with you. You must try and realise what it all means to me. I sometimes think poor Gregory was fonder of me than of his own sisters. I do try always to see only the good in everybody, and Gregory responded to me in a way that makes me very happy to look back upon.’

‘Oh Gawd!’ said Guy rudely.

Mrs Matthews compressed her lips for a moment, but replied almost at once in an extremely gentle voice: ‘Go and dress, Guy dear. A dark suit, of course, and not that orange pull-over. You too, Stella.’

‘Actually, I hadn’t thought of the orange pull-over,’ said Guy loftily. ‘But I utterly agree with Nigel about mourning. It’s a survival of barbarism, and, as he says –’

‘Darling, I know you don’t mean to hurt me,’ said Mrs Matthews sadly, ‘but when you treat sacred things in that spirit of –’

‘You’ve simply got to realise that I’m a Pure Agnostic,’ replied Guy. ‘When you talk about things like death being sacred it means absolutely nothing to me.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ interrupted Stella, giving him a push towards the door. ‘Nobody wants to listen to your views on religion.’

‘They’re not particularly my views,’ said Guy, ‘but the views of practically all thinking people today.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Stella inelegantly, and walked off to her own room.

Mary’s surmise that Dr Fielding had been called out before breakfast was proved to be correct. He had not returned to his house when Beecher rang up, and it was not until both Stella and Guy had bathed and dressed that he arrived at the Poplars. By that time Miss Matthews, recovering from her fit of crying, had also dressed, and had not only telephoned to her elder sister, Gertrude Lupton, but had found time to give a great many orders to Mrs Beecher for the subsequent using-up of the fish and the eggs already cooked for a breakfast she felt sure no one could think of eating. These orders were immediately cancelled by Stella and Guy, who were feeling hungry, and an altercation was in full force when Dr Fielding walked into the house.

He was a tall man in the middle-thirties, with very wide-set grey eyes, and a humorous mouth. As he stepped into the hall he exchanged a glance with Stella, who at once went forward to greet him. ‘Oh, Deryk, thank God you’ve come!’ she said, taking his hand.

‘Stella, not with your uncle lying dead upstairs!’ begged Miss Matthews distractedly. ‘Not that I disapprove, because I’m sure dear Dr Fielding – But after all Gregory said – though I daresay he feels quite differently now that he’s passed on: I believe they do, though I’ve never been able to understand why. Oh dear, how very confusing it all is! If I’d ever dreamed it would all be so difficult and unpleasant I should have been the last person in the world to have wanted Gregory to die. It was the duck, Doctor. I implored him not to eat it, but he would go his own way, and now he’s dead, and there are two beautiful lamb cutlets gone to waste. Eaten in the kitchen! English lamb!’

Dr Fielding, returning the pressure of Stella’s fingers, broke in on this monologue to request that he might be taken at once to Gregory Matthews’s room.

‘Oh yes!’ said Miss Matthews, looking round in a flustered way. ‘Of course! I should take you up myself, only that I feel I never want to enter the room again. Guy, you are the man of the house now!’

‘No one need take me up,’ replied Dr Fielding. ‘I know my way.’

Beecher coughed, and stepped forward to the foot of the stairs. ‘If you please, sir, I will escort you to the Master’s room.’

The doctor looked at him. ‘You were the one who found Mr Matthews, I think? By all means come up.’

At the head of the stairs he was met by Mrs Matthews. She was dressed in a becoming black frock, and greeted him in a voice rather more fading than usual. She was not a patient of his, because she mistrusted all General Practitioners, but as a man (as she frequently observed) she liked him very well. Now that Gregory Matthews’s opposition had been

Enjoying the preview?
Page 1 of 1