“Oh, sort of financial punter, wasn't he? He had an office in the City, and I think played about with stocks and shares. Started life in a broker's office, I believe, and I suppose struck lucky.”
“We'll take a look at that office of his. Do you know anything about the rest of the family?”
“Nothing except what I saw when I went down to read the Will.”
“You're not being at all helpful,” complained Hannasyde. “What did you make of Randall Matthews?”
Giles tipped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Well, since you ask me, I can't say I took to him much,” he replied.
“Nor did I. Know anything about him?”
Giles shook his head. “Young man-about-town: not in my line of country. Are you interested in him?”
“I'm interested in anybody connected with this case. Hemingway says it's like pea-soup. It's this damned nicotine, Mr Carrington. It may have been swallowed, and the probability is that it wasn't. There was a bad scratch on the back of the deceased's left hand.”
“Borgia-stuff!” said Giles incredulously.
“Sounds like it, doesn't it? But one of our experts is of the opinion that the poison could have been absorbed that way. Well, the sister, Harriet Matthews, was the last person to be with Matthews on the night he died—though she didn't admit that to me. We can say, if you like, that she inflicted the scratch, but —”