“She took me into her drawing-room,” said Hannasyde. “Cosy little room. Lots of cushions and knick-knacks. You know the style, I expect. There was a large portrait of a man bang in the middle of the mantelpiece. She told me it was her husband.”
“Perhaps it was,” said Giles charitably.
“I don't think so,” replied Hannasyde in his unemotional way. “It was a photograph of Mr Henry Lupton.”
Chapter Six
“Henry Lupton?” repeated Giles, a little blankly. “You don't mean the hen-pecked brother-in-law? Is he keeping a mistress? How extremely funny!”
“May not be so funny,” said Hannasyde. “That's about the size of it, though. I didn't get much out of Gladys Smith. She said her husband was a commercial traveller, and often away from home. Great air of respectability about the whole thing. Poor devil!”
“Who? Henry? Seems to have found consolation.”
“Not much consolation if it comes to his wife's ears.”
“Well, what's it all about? What have Lupton's peccadilloes to do with Matthews' death?”
“Perhaps nothing. But if you remember, Mr Carrington, Gladys Smith figured in Matthews' diary on May 9th. On the 13th he had an appointment to see Lupton. Doesn't that seem to you to hang together?”