The Mystery at Underwood House

by Clara Benson

  Angela gazed around the hall, trying to picture the scene.

  ‘How soon after you heard the scream did you rush out?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, immediately,’ replied Louisa. ‘You couldn’t ignore a sound like that. It quite pierced one to the bone.’

  ‘Then there wouldn’t have been much time for anybody to leave the scene. A murderer, I mean.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘May I?’ Angela walked over to the stairs and ascended them slowly, looking about her as she did so. She reached the landing and stopped at the point from where Winifred must have fallen, then took out a handkerchief and leaned carefully over the balustrade as if to flick a speck of dust from the chandelier, which hung a little way away.

  ‘Do be careful,’ said Mrs. Haynes.

  ‘She must have been leaning very far out to have fallen accidentally,’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes, she must. But the servants are rather remiss in dusting that chandelier, and she was always complaining about it.’

  ‘Let’s say she was pushed. Would there have been time for whomever did it to run down the stairs and perhaps appear with the rest of you, do you think?’

  ‘Why don’t we try it?’ suggested Guy Fisher eagerly.

  ‘Well—’ began Angela, but he was already running upstairs to join her.

  ‘Louisa, you go into the drawing-room,’ he commanded. ‘I shall yell out and then dash full pelt down the stairs. You run into the hall as soon as you hear me shout. Mrs. Marchmont, you shall stand at the bottom of the stairs and take notes.’

  Angela could not help laughing at his youthful enthusiasm.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Suppose we do as he says, Louisa.’

  Louisa, looking a little surprised, agreed.

  ‘All set?’ said Guy, once Angela had reached the hall and Louisa had disappeared into the drawing-room. He lifted his head and gave a blood-curdling yell, then dashed down the stairs as fast as he could. He had just reached the bottom and was attempting to strike a nonchalant attitude when Mrs. Haynes arrived.

  ‘There you have it,’ he said.

  ‘You only just managed it by the skin of your teeth,’ said Angela. ‘And you are a little breathless. Louisa, do you recall anybody’s being out of breath when you found Winifred?’

  ‘Why, I couldn’t possibly remember anything like that,’ replied her friend.

  ‘What on earth was that frightful row?’ demanded a voice from the top of the stairs.

  ‘There you are, my dear,’ said Louisa Haynes. ‘I was just about to come up and find you.’

  The new-comer was a self-possessed young woman, dressed pertly in the modern fashion, who had apparently just emerged from her room.

  ‘Hallo, Stella,’ said Guy. ‘Sorry about the screeching. Did we wake you up?’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep, you ass,’ said the girl without rancour. As she approached them, Angela could see that her eyes were red as though she had been crying.

  ‘You must be Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Stella Gillespie. Aunt Louisa says you are going to solve the mystery of Underwood House. Is that what all the shouting was about?’

  ‘We were trying to find out whether someone could have pushed Winifred over the edge and then run downstairs and mingled with the throng before anybody was the wiser,’ said Guy.

  ‘I should have thought it was more likely that whoever it was would have run into one of the bedrooms nearest the top of the stairs,’ said Stella.

  ‘The only person upstairs at the time was Susan,’ said Louisa. ‘Everyone else was down here.’

  ‘Robin and Don arrived on the scene before everybody else,’ said Guy. ‘We shall have to find out which of them got there first.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Angela.

  Stella turned to Mrs. Marchmont.

  ‘I must say it’s jolly thrilling to meet a real detective,’ she said, to Angela’s private dismay. ‘Have you decided which of us did it yet?’

  ‘Isn’t it always the most unlikely person who turns out to be the murderer?’ said Guy Fisher. ‘At least, that’s what happens in the books I’ve read. That means it must be you, Stella. Or me. Or even Mrs. Marchmont.’ He grinned slyly. ‘You haven’t told us where you were when they all died, Mrs. Marchmont. How clean is your conscience?’

  ‘I’m quite sure my conscience is as grubby around the edges as anyone’s,’ said Angela lightly, ‘but in this case I plead not guilty.’

  ‘Let’s have some tea,’ said Mrs. Haynes as they entered the drawing-room. ‘Ring the bell, Stella.’

  ‘I should like to take a walk down to the lake afterwards,’ said Angela.

  ‘Certainly. I won’t come myself, but Stella will go with you, won’t you, my dear?’

  ‘May I come too?’ asked Guy. ‘This is all tremendously exciting. I should love to do some investigating.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Angela politely.

  She sipped her tea in silence as the others chattered gaily. She was by no means happy at the idea of turning what had been intended to be a discreet inquiry into a general free-for-all. In fact, the further she was drawn in, the more awkward her situation appeared.

  ‘Assuming it was murder, how am I supposed to find out who did it if everyone is going to follow me about and demand to know my every thought on the matter?’ she said to herself. ‘And even if I do find out who did it, how can I stand there in front of everybody, point the finger and say, “It was you”? Angela, you idiot, why on earth did you allow yourself to be persuaded to do this? I don’t like it at all.’

  SIX

  ‘We used to bathe here in the summer as children,’ said Stella as they followed the path through the woods, ducking under branches and jumping over tree roots. ‘All of us cousins, I mean. I’m not a blood relation of the Hayneses, of course, but I used to come and stay with Aunt Louisa during the holidays. Here we are.’

  The trees fell away and they emerged into a little pebbled cove that sloped down to a small lake, completely surrounded by trees. Before them was an old landing-stage in a state of some disrepair, to which an equally dilapidated rowing-boat was attached by a frayed rope.

  ‘Is that the boat?’ asked Mrs. Marchmont.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella.

  ‘Then let us take a closer look.’

  The three of them walked along the landing-stage.

  ‘Not much to see, really,’ said Guy as they stared down at the craft, which bobbed gently below them.

  ‘No,’ said Angela, ‘and I imagine the police have already examined it closely for evidence—finger-prints and what-not.’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said Stella.

  ‘Did they find anything?’

  ‘If they did, they didn’t tell us.’

  ‘I’m sure they would have said something if they had,’ said Guy.

  They returned to the shore.

  ‘What happened that evening, exactly?’ asked Angela.

  Guy and Stella looked at each other.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ said Guy. ‘But I do know it started with a big row between John and Edward after dinner.’

  ‘But it wasn’t just those two, was it?’ said Stella. ‘I mean, they started it, but then Ursula joined in, and Susan, and Don, and before we knew it they were all in the middle of the most terrific ding-dong.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘They didn’t generally get as heated, but I wouldn’t say it was unusual as such.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Guy. ‘The Hayneses have always been fond of a good, healthy falling-out.’

  ‘And then Edward said he wasn’t going to stand for it any longer, and stormed out,’ continued Stella. ‘We thought he’d gone to his room, but as it turned out he must have left the house.’

  ‘I don’t know what got into him,’ said Guy. ‘It was freezing cold that night.’

  ‘He wasn’t found until the next day, I understand,’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘We had be
en searching all morning and found nothing. Then somebody spotted that the boat had somehow floated loose, so Uncle John got some of the men to drag the lake. That was when they discovered his body.’

  ‘How long had he been dead?’

  ‘The doctor couldn’t tell exactly. “Somewhere between twelve and eighteen hours,” was all he would say.

  ‘Hmm. That’s vague enough, anyhow,’ said Angela. ‘He could have died at any time after he went out or even during the night, presumably. Alibis won’t be of much help in that case.’

  ‘Yes, we were all coming and going that evening,’ said Guy. ‘I certainly couldn’t tell you what anyone was doing at any particular time. Frankly, I’m not even sure what I was doing myself.’

  ‘You were present at dinner, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘I usually dine with the family.’

  ‘Oh yes—we simply can’t bear to be without him, you know,’ said Stella mockingly. She sat down on a fallen tree trunk and pulled off her cap. The early May sunshine glinted off her golden hair as she stared absently out at the lake. Angela glanced towards Guy and caught him gazing intently at the girl. He saw her watching him and looked away, reddening.

  They were all silent for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Angela turned and looked at the boat.

  ‘If I wanted to drown someone deliberately in the lake, how would I go about it?’ she asked.

  They all considered the question. Guy was the first to speak.

  ‘If it were I, I should catch him unawares in the shallows and hold him under,’ he said.

  ‘But then how did he end up in the middle of the lake?’

  ‘Perhaps, knowing Edward couldn’t swim, the killer simply took him out in the boat and pushed him overboard,’ suggested Stella.

  Angela shook her head.

  ‘Rather a dangerous approach on the part of a murderer, don’t you think, to rely on his victim’s incompetence?’ she said. ‘What if it turned out that Edward could swim a little after all? At least, well enough to get back to the shore? And besides, if it was true that he loathed the water, then he would never have gone out onto the lake willingly. There would have been a struggle.’

  ‘That’s true,’ conceded Stella. ‘Well then, he must have been dead or at least unconscious when he was put in the boat. But why did the killer take him out into the middle of the lake?’

  ‘To make it look like an accident, of course,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t you agree, Mrs. Marchmont?’

  ‘Yes, that seems the most likely answer,’ replied Angela. ‘Assuming all three deaths are connected, then whoever was responsible has taken some care to make them look accidental.’ She walked slowly back towards the jetty, trying to imagine the scene. ‘Very well, let’s say he was drowned here by the shore, and that whoever killed him then bundled him into the boat, rowed him out into the middle of the lake and threw him overboard,’ she said. ‘How did the murderer return to shore?’

  ‘Must he necessarily have gone out in the boat with Edward?’ asked Stella. ‘Perhaps he merely put the body in the boat and set it loose.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘Oh! How silly of me—someone had to be there to throw him overboard, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Angela. ‘If it was murder, then someone went out on the lake with him, alive or dead.’

  ‘He must have swum back to shore,’ said Guy. ‘Or perhaps there was another boat.’

  ‘Are there any other boats hereabouts?’ asked Stella.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ admitted Guy.

  ‘Then whoever it was must have returned to the house drenched.’

  ‘And with chattering teeth too,’ said Guy feelingly. ‘The water is as cold as ice.’

  ‘Yes, I think we must look for someone who arrived back at the house with wet clothes,’ said Angela.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Stella. ‘It would make much more sense for him to strip before going out in the boat, and leave his clothes by the shore.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Angela. She looked as though she were about to say something else, but thought better of it.

  Guy picked up a pebble and aimed it idly at the boat. It glanced off a rowlock and entered the water with a gentle splash.

  ‘Supposing it was an accident,’ said Angela. ‘Let us assume that for some reason Edward acted so far out of character as to go out voluntarily in a rowing-boat on a cold night. Why did he do it?’

  ‘Perhaps as a means of calming down and collecting his thoughts,’ said Stella. ‘Some people like to work off a bad temper with vigorous exercise.’

  ‘Was he the type?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said so, but people are odd. Sometimes they do totally unexpected things.’

  ‘How did the accident happen, then?’

  ‘That’s easy enough,’ said Guy. ‘If he really was such a duffer on the water then he probably went out dragging the painter behind him or something, then when it got tangled up in weeds he fell overboard and drowned while trying to free it.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ agreed Angela. She looked absently down at the ground, turning over the various possibilities in her head.

  ‘I’ve always thought this was such a pretty spot,’ said Stella, ‘but it’s been spoilt now. I shall never look at it in the same way again.’ She stood up and shivered. ‘Let’s go back to the house.’

  ‘My shoe-buckle has come undone,’ said Angela suddenly. She bent over to fasten it, then gave an impatient exclamation. ‘I think it might be broken. Do go ahead. I shall catch you up.’

  Angela busied herself with her shoe as Guy and Stella disappeared into the woods. As soon as they were out of sight she straightened up and went cautiously over to the fallen tree trunk. Something was sticking out a little way from a crack underneath it. With a little difficulty she succeeded in extracting the thing carefully and brushed the dirt off it. She stared at it, puzzled. Although it was damp and faded and part of it was torn away, it was unmistakably a photograph of a pretty young woman. The picture had evidently been trapped in the crevice of the tree trunk for some time, and was so damaged that it was impossible to judge how old it was, but Angela guessed it had been taken some years ago. Just for a moment she thought she recognized the face, but then almost instantly the impression was gone and she shook her head.

  She heard the others calling her and, recollecting herself, thrust the picture in her pocket and hurried after them. Was the photograph connected to this business? If so, how? And who was the woman?

  SEVEN

  ‘There’s Uncle John,’ said Stella as they reached the lawn.

  John Haynes was a bluff, hearty-looking man with greying hair and moustache. He hailed them jovially.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Angela,’ he said. ‘Louisa said I should find you out here somewhere. She’s still clinging to this nonsense about Edward. I told her not to listen to Ursula—the woman is mad, quite frankly—got a ridiculous bee in her bonnet—but she went ahead and called you anyway. Have you been down to the lake? What do you think of Underwood?’

  Angela duly expressed her admiration of the house and grounds and he nodded complacently.

  ‘Yes, it’s a pleasant spot, isn’t it? I know it’s not the fashion to be sentimental, but I must confess I love the old place. The others wanted to get rid of it, you know, said it was a millstone around all our necks, but I—well, I could never agree to sell it, however much it costs to keep it up. Ha! They can’t make me sell now, can they? Not now they’re dead. But you won’t dig up anything, I can promise you that. Poor Philippa had been ill for years—heart trouble, you know, and Winifred always was a batty old trout—just the type to break her neck through her own carelessness.’

  He broke off from this startling outburst to shout to a large retriever that was nosing around in some undergrowth.

  ‘Does the house belong wholly to you now?’ asked Angela.

  John Haynes made a noise that sounded like ‘harrumph’.

  ‘Not wholly, no.
I got Philippa to leave me her share in her will. Promised to think about selling if she did. Silly old fool—can’t think why she believed me. Susan and Ursula inherited a quarter share each after Winifred and Edward died, but between you and me I’m pretty sure I shall come to an agreement with Susan—her mother gave all her money to spiritualist societies and educational institutions for deserving orphans, that kind of thing, so Susan was left flat broke. Ursula hasn’t a leg to stand on. She can whistle for it if she likes, but unless she agrees to sell her share to me it’s all so much gas.’

  ‘I take it, then, that you don’t believe the deaths were anything but natural.’

  John snorted.

  ‘Of course they were natural! Any half-wit can see that. Why my wife should take it into her head to believe anything that woman says is beyond me, but there you have it—she’s allowed herself to be influenced and now she sees shadowy figures with raised daggers behind every gate-post.’

  ‘But don’t you think it odd that your brother should choose to go out on the lake on a freezing winter’s night? Especially when, by all accounts, he loathed the water.’

  ‘So Ursula says. I can’t say I remember his having such a hatred of it. If you ask me, it’s perfectly natural that a man in a huff should decide to work it off with a turn on the lake. It’s what I should do myself.’

  ‘I understand that nobody was present at either of your sisters’ deaths.’

  ‘Not that I know of. In Philippa’s case, she simply went to bed and didn’t get up again. I missed all the excitement with Winifred. I gather she came down with quite a thud.’