Behold, Here's Poison by Georgette Heyer

From the Publisher

When Gregory Matthews, patriarch of the Poplars is found dead one morning, imperious Aunt Harriet blames it on the roast duck he ate for supper. But a post-mortem determines the cause of death as murder by poison. It falls to Superintendent Hannasyde to sift through all the secrets and lies among the bitter, quarrelsome family.

Publishers Weekly

Although her contemporaries Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and Ngaio Marsh got more attention, Heyer (1902-1974) also was an important pioneer in the mystery field. When she wasn't writing her more famous historical romances, Heyer turned out several sharp and satirical mysteries such as this one, which in many ways is as bracingly modern as the film Gosford Park in its treatment of life above and below stairs in a posh country house. The excellent British television actor Dickson, probably best known to American audiences for his performance in A&E's The Scarlet Pimpernel, perfectly catches both the edge and depth of Heyer's writing, as he creates dozens of characters who differ subtly in age, sex and-most importantly-class, in this story of a poisoning and its aftermath. Dickson's solid, no-nonsense reading of Inspector Hannasyde, Heyer's quietly impressive sleuth, might make listeners long for a video version somewhere down the road. (Oct.) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.

Library Journal

Although Heyer is better known for her Regency romances and was outshone by her contemporaries Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie, and Ngaio Marsh, she also wrote mysteries between the World Wars. Behold, Here's Poison was originally published in 1936, and fans of Gosford Park will adore it. The Poplars is a big English house-home to the Matthews family: Gregory, the head of the family, discovered dead of nicotine poisoning; his sisters, the domineering Harriet and Gertrude; the Nosy Parker and dramatic Zoe, the sister-in-law with her grown children, Guy and Stella; and his nephew and heir, the oh-so-smooth Randall. Added to this lot are the neighbors and servants, including the redoubtable Mr. and Mrs. Beecher, who give their notice after the second murder. The author's trademark sparkling dialog is here along with an intricate, twisting plot, and the suave Inspector Hannasyde is much less irritating than Wimsey or Poirot. Hugh Dickson gives a masterful performance at delineating all of these characters as well as the subtle class distinctions that are such a part of Heyer's writing. A listening treat; enthusiastically recommended for all libraries.-Barbara A. Perkins, Irving P.L., TX Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

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Excerpt from Chapter One of Behold, Here's Poison by Georgette Heyer

It was going to be a fine day. There was a white mist curling away in wreaths over the Heath that told Mary, standing on the half-landing with the dustpan in her hand, and gazing out through the tall window, that it would be sunny and really warm by lunch-time. She would be able to wear the blue voile after all, in spite of Rose's gloomy forebodings. Rose said that it always rained on anybody's half-day. Well, it wasn't going to rain today, not if Mary knew the signs.

She leaned up against the window, watching the mist, approving the heavy dew that lay like a grey sheet over the lawn in front of the house.

It was early. The Heath, which later on would be scattered over with children, and nurses pushing perambulators, seemed quite deserted, nor was there any traffic upon the road that lay between the iron gates of the Poplars and the edge of the Heath. Craning her neck, Mary could obtain a glimpse of the next-door house through a gap in the trees.
Curtains still drawn on the backstairs, she noted. Well, she didn't blame the girls at Holly Lodge, she was sure. If your master and mistress went away to the seaside you were entitled to take your ease. Not but what those girls were a lazy lot of sluts, come to think of it. Common, too. Like mistress like maid, said Rose, and that was true enough. She wasn't any class, Mrs Rumbold.

Mary turned her head, transferring her gaze from Holly Lodge to the house on the other side of the Poplars. It was a smaller house, and she could not see much of it, but she noticed that the garage doors were open. That meant that the doctor had been called outearly. It was a shame the way people sent for the doctor at all hours, and half the time for nothing more serious than an attack of indigestion, so Miss Stella said. A real gentleman he was, too, and ever so handsome! She didn't wonder at Miss Stella being sweet on him. It was a pity the Master had taken such a dislike to him. For they all knew in the servants' hall that he had, just as they knew about the trouble with Mr Guy, who wanted money for that queer business he ran with that Mr Brooke, and whom the Master wanted to send off to South America. You'd have to be a pretty fool if you didn't know most of what was going on in this house, what with the Master going in off the deep end and the doctor being called in for his Blood Pressure; and Miss Harriet coming out with bits of talk to anybody, even the kitchen-maid; Mrs Matthews taking to her bed because of all the worry about poor Mr Guy; and Mr Guy himself talking it all over with Miss Stella without so much as bothering to see if anyone was listening. Oh no, there were precious few secrets at the Poplars! Too many people cooped up together, thought Mary, vigorously sweeping the last six stairs. It never did to have two families under the same roof : there was bound to be a lot of squabbling, especially when you got an old girl like Miss Harriet behaving sometimes as though she was downright simple, and at other times showing you she was as sharp as a needle, and as mean as - Mary couldn't think of anything as mean as Miss Harriet. Potty, that's what she was. You'd only got to see her collecting all the little bits of soap left over, and using them up herself, just as though she hadn't a penny to bless herself with. Regular old magpie, she was. Now, Mrs Matthews wasn't like that, give her her due. She was a nuisance all right, what with her glasses of hot water, and trays up to her room, but she wasn't one to go poking her nose into store-cupboards. You didn't really mind running round after Mrs Matthews, waiting on her hand and foot like she expected, because she always spoke nicely, and behaved like a lady. Nor you didn't mind Miss Stella, neither, in spite of the way she never put anything away, and was always wanting you to do things for her which weren't your work at all, properly speaking. And Mr Guy was that handsome it was a pleasure to wait on him. But when it came to Miss Harriet and the Master things were different. It was queer them being brother and sister, thought Mary, going slowly upstairs again to collect all the shoes which had been put out to be cleaned. Not a bit alike, they weren't. Mrs Lupton, now, from Fairview, over the other side of the Heath, you'd know anywhere for the Master's sister. She had the same domineering ways, though you weren't scared of her like you were scared of the Master. With the Master things had to be just as he wanted them, or there was trouble, and when the Master was angry you felt as though your knees were stuffed with cotton-wool. They were all of them scared of him, reflected Mary, picking up his shoes from outside his bedroom-door; even Mrs Matthews, though if anyone could
get round him she could.

Mrs Matthews' shoes were the next to be collected, high-heeled, expensive shoes with Bond Street written all over them, thought Mary, pausing to admire them. The money Mrs Matthews must spend on her clothes! That was a sure sign she knew how to manage the Master, because it was common knowledge that her husband (him as was the Master's youngest brother) had left her pretty badly off. Good job for her she was so nice-looking and attractive, because though you couldn't ever call the Master mean you wouldn't catch him providing for a sister-in-law he didn't like, having her and her children to live with him, and all.

Yes, and didn't it get under Miss Harriet's skin, them being in the house and behaving as though money was no object like they did, thought Mary, picking up Miss Matthews' lowheeled, trodden-over shoes of black glace, and tucking them under her arm. There wasn't much love lost between her and Mrs Matthews, though to do her justice the old skinflint seemed to like Mr Guy and Miss Stella well enough.

Suede shoes outside Mr Guy's door; smart, they were, but a nuisance to clean. She'd have to do them, she supposed, because the under-gardener would be sure to put polish on them by mistake.

And lastly Miss Stella's shoes, two pairs of them, the brogues she wore on the Heath, and the blue kid shoes she went to town in.

She put all the shoes in her apron, and carried them down the back stairs to the scullery. Cook, Mrs Beecher, was in the kitchen, and called her in for a cup of tea. It made all the difference to you, thought Mary, being in a place where the cook was good-tempered. She went into the kitchen, and took her place at the table between Beecher and Rose. Rose was sitting with her elbows on the table, and her cup between her hands, eagerly recounting what had passed between the Master and Miss Stella in the library last night.