“Not if they arrest Aunt Gertrude,” said Randall. He poured out the coffee, and handed one cup to Stella. “For you I might.”
“Give yourself up as the murderer, I should think,” said Stella scornfully.
“Who knows?” said Randall. “But don't you worry, my sweet: I shan't have to. This little murder-case isn't going to be solved.”
“But I want it to be solved!” Stella said.
“Possibly,” replied Randall. “But I don't.”
More he refused to say, but quite firmly turned the subject. Stella left his flat shortly after two o'clock, and drove home, pondering his words. She refrained from telling anyone at the Poplars what her errand to town had been; in fact, when closely interrogated by Miss Matthews in a spirit of rampant curiosity, she said unblushingly that she had lunched with a school-friend. Miss Matthews, sniffing, said that she should have thought Stella might have refrained from gallivanting up to town the very day after her uncle's funeral.
Dinner was enlivened by the presence of Mrs Lupton who, as her husband was detained in town, announced her intention of coming to the Poplars, and arrived at a quarter-to-eight in a dress of rustling black silk, and found fault with every course that was set before her. She had some justification, since Miss Matthews, now that her brother's wrath could no longer descend on her, had embarked on a campaign of the most ruthless economy.
“Let me tell you, Harriet,” said Mrs Lupton, “that if you think to deceive me by covering things up with a thick sauce you are mistaken. This fish is Cod.”
Mrs Matthews sighed, and remarked in a reminiscent voice: “I must say, when one remembers how particular dear Gregory was about what he ate —”
“Instead of remembering Gregory's tastes you would be better employed, my dear Zoë, in doing your share of the housekeeping,” interrupted Mrs Lupton. “Harriet never could order a meal.”