Fielding drew in his breath. “You're too kind. I am not unaccustomed to giving evidence in my professional capacity.”
“But in such difficult circumstances!” said Randall. “And so many witnesses show a lamentable tendency to lose their heads. Not that I expected you to do that, I need scarcely say.”
“Thank you,” said Fielding, with heavy irony. “There was no reason why I should lose my head.”
“No,” agreed Randall, “everything seems to have been conducted in the politest way. No awkward questions asked, no nerve-racking cross-examination. I have always felt that to be cross-examined would be enough to shake the stoutest nerve.”
“Let us hope then that you will never be called upon to face such an ordeal,” said Fielding.
“That is very nice of you, and seems to call for a like response,” said Randall. “I can do no less than hope that you will not be called upon to face it either.”
“I am not much alarmed by the prospect,” replied Fielding with a slight smile. “If this business comes to a trial, I shall naturally have to appear.”
Randall shook his head. “It has all been most unlucky,” he remarked. “For the murderer, I mean. Who could have supposed that my dear Aunt Gertrude would have been the instrument chosen to upset one of the neatest murders of the century?”
“I could wish for the family's sake that the truth had never come to light, certainly,” said Fielding. “It is most unpleasant for them.” He met Randall's satirical look fair and square. “It is even rather unpleasant for me,” he continued deliberately. “Quite a number of people, I imagine, think that because I am a doctor I ought instantly to have realised that Matthews died from a somewhat obscure poison.”
“Oh, there is bound to be talk,” Randall answered cheerfully. “People have such suspicious minds. I daresay they attach a ridiculous amount of importance to that bottle of tonic which was so fortunately smashed.”