“Probably, but I don't quite see how he could have come here at that hour without being seen by some of the household, if that's what you're driving at.”
“Easily,” said Hannasyde, with a touch of scorn. “There are more ways of getting into this house than by the front-door, Mr Carrington. There's a garden-door, for instance, which opens out of a cloakroom on to a path at the side of the house. Anyone would use that door if he wanted to be unobserved. The backstairs come down just by the cloakroom. He would only have to choose his moment. The family and the servants would all be having tea. He might reasonably bank on the coast's being clear.”
“Yes, but what would have been the use?” asked Giles. “Matthews wasn't at home then. Into what would he have dropped his poison?”
“I'm thinking of that bottle of tonic—so providentially smashed,” said Hannasyde.
Giles wrinkled his brow. “Would he have known where it was kept? And how could he have arranged to smash it?”
“He might have known. Simple enough to smash it when he came round next morning with his wife.”
“Oh!” said Giles doubtfully. “Think it's quite in keeping with his character? Such a weak little man!”
“He was feeling desperate, Mr Carrington. He admitted that himself. I should say this Gladys Smith is about the biggest thing in his life.”
“Divorce seems to me to be a solution more likely to appeal to him than murder,” said Giles.
Hannasyde shook his head decidedly. “I don't agree with you. He wouldn't face up to that sort of a scandal. Probably fond of his daughters too. If he did the murder it was because he thought he could get clean away with it. He couldn't have got clean away with a divorce—not with that wife. There'd have been the hell of a row.”