The Mystery at Underwood House

by Clara Benson

  ‘But there’s such a lot of it. What will you do with the dead stuff once you’ve cut it back?’

  ‘Why, we’ll let her dry off awhile then build a nice big bonfire, of course,’ he replied with some relish.

  The ladder had now been placed and one of the other men was preparing to climb it.

  ‘Do you know whose window that is, Briggs? It is Briggs, isn’t it?’ asked Angela.

  The gardener beamed and drew himself up to his full height with difficulty.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. Been with the Hayneses at Underwood House for nigh on sixty years, I have. I knew Mr. John when he was a lad this tall. Knew his father when he was a young man, too.’ His face darkened. ‘It’s not my place to say it, but he’s dead and gone now—you may guess where—so I shall. He was a bad man.’

  ‘Philip Haynes?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘In what way was he a bad man?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know how to put it, ma’am, not being what you might call overly book-learned. But he played with people, if you catch my meaning.’

  ‘Played with people?’

  ‘That’s right. Just as though they was dolls or toy soldiers or pieces on a board. He liked to set his family one against the other just for the fun of watching ’em fight. You could almost see him sitting back and clapping his hands every time he pulled it off. He was like a man I once knew, who used to come to Beningfleet every year when I was quite a young lad. He had a puppet-show and all the children used to come and watch. My, it was clever, the way he got the puppets to talk to each other, just as though they was real people, and not dolls being dangled about by someone behind a curtain. Just like that, old Mr. Haynes was.’

  ‘Did you never wish to leave?’

  ‘Not I. He always treated me kindly enough, I’ll say that. It was his family what got all the unhappiness, not the servants. Besides, I was fond of Mrs. Haynes, God rest her soul. Who knows what trials she had to bear, all those years she was married to him. Still, she’s gone to a better place now, and I won’t say it’s not a mercy. Take it all the way back there, Tom, that’s right,’ he called to the young man at the top of the ladder, who appeared to be having some difficulty.

  ‘I do hope he won’t fall off,’ said Angela.

  ‘Wasn’t so long ago I should have gone up there myself, but Mr. John won’t let me now,’ said Mr. Briggs regretfully.

  ‘He is quite correct,’ said Angela. ‘You are much better off directing things from down here.’

  ‘P’raps you’re right,’ he said. ‘I won’t deny I’ve got a stiffness in my back. Roomer-tism, they call it. Call it what you like, says I, but it all boils down to one thing—old age, and there’s no cure for that. Further to the left now,’ he called out.

  ‘Whose room did you say that was?’

  ‘That one? That’s Mr. Donald’s bedroom. He’s just come back from one of them foreign places. What was it they called it? The Ague. Seems a funny thing to me to call a place after a disease, but you never know what them foreigners will take it into their heads to do.’

  ‘It’s Donald’s room, you say,’ said Angela.

  ‘It is now. Years ago it was Miss Christina’s.’

  ‘Who is Miss Christina?’

  ‘She was the second child and the eldest girl, the one who ran off.’

  ‘Do you mean Philip Haynes’s second daughter? I seem to remember hearing about a girl who died.’

  ‘That’s her all right,’ agreed Briggs. ‘Terrible sad, it was. She was always a headstrong child, so it was no wonder that she came to blows with her family when she grew up.’

  ‘When was that?’

  He scratched his head.

  ‘Ah, I don’t rightly remember, but it must be thirty years or more. The old Queen was still on the throne, I do know that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They do say—’

  But what they did say Angela never knew, as they were just then interrupted by a cheery call from Stella Gillespie, who had spotted the visitor from a downstairs window and was coming out to greet her, accompanied by Guy Fisher. Mr. Briggs touched his hat once again and resumed his supervision of the ivy-cutting operations.

  ‘There you are,’ said Stella. ‘We wondered where you had got to.’

  ‘Am I late? I beg your pardon,’ said Angela. ‘I happened to bump into Mr. Faulkner in the village and have been talking to him.’

  ‘Mr. Faulkner? He’s the solicitor fellow, isn’t he?’ said Guy. ‘He used to come here quite often before old Philip died, but I haven’t seen him for some time now.’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ said Stella. ‘He’s wily. There’s something underhand about him.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ said Guy, with interest. ‘I say, now you mention it I suppose he does give rather that impression. Perhaps it’s the way that he glances at one sideways rather than directly, as though he didn’t want one to see what he was thinking.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s not just that. I always have the feeling that he knows something about me that I should rather he didn’t, and that he is studying me in order to decide upon the best way to use that knowledge,’ said Stella.

  ‘I say!’ said Guy. ‘Are we to understand that you have a guilty secret? Tell all, my child, tell all. Neither of us shall breathe a word, you have my promise—although we may indulge in a little light blackmail.’

  ‘Idiot,’ said Stella. ‘Mrs. Marchmont understands what I mean, don’t you, Mrs. Marchmont?’

  ‘I think I do,’ replied Angela with a smile.

  ‘And do you agree with me?’

  ‘I should say that Mr. Faulkner knows very well what he is about,’ said Angela cautiously.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Guy, ‘but never mind him now. I am itching to know how our lady detective is getting on with her investigation.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Stella. ‘Have you spoken to Ursula? What did she say? Did she accuse us all of being in it together?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Angela.

  ‘Did you like her?’ asked Guy maliciously.

  ‘I found her very interesting,’ replied Angela.

  ‘You see, Stella? I told you she wouldn’t tell us anything. She is far too discreet for that.’

  ‘Naturally, I am as silent as the grave,’ said Angela, who indeed had no intention of revealing anything at all about the progress of her inquiry if she could help it.

  ‘Don is back, by the way,’ said Guy. ‘He returned last night. You can question him now.’

  Stella glowered but said nothing, and Angela guessed that she and Donald had not yet made it up.

  ‘I do have one or two questions I should like to ask him,’ she said. ‘Shall we go in?’

  Guy turned to accompany her but Stella forestalled him.

  ‘I think I shall go for a walk,’ she said. There was a determined light in her eyes. ‘Are you coming, Guy?’ She set off towards the woods without looking back.

  Guy hesitated, clearly torn between the two of them.

  ‘Do go if you like,’ said Angela. ‘I can find my own way in.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ said Guy. His tone was light but his eyes followed Stella’s retreating figure.

  ‘Of course not.’

  He flashed her a grin and ran off after the girl.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Angela to herself. ‘I do hope she’s not going to break his heart.’ She turned and walked into the house.

  THIRTEEN

  Angela had caught only a brief glimpse of Donald Haynes the last time she saw him and so she was surprised to discover how extraordinarily good-looking he was. He was the sort of young man whom romantic novelists of the more fatuous kind would describe as ‘saturnine’, with intense dark eyes and a lowering brow. His habitual expression was sombre, but occasionally his face would light up and his mouth widen into an infectious grin, which transformed him completely. Angela judged him to be the sort of man who would be unlikely to wear his passions lightly, and was cur
ious to know what had caused the disagreement between him and Stella.

  He readily agreed to answer any questions Mrs. Marchmont might care to ask him.

  ‘Ask away,’ he said. ‘Although you’ll find I have nothing to tell you. Quite frankly, I don’t know what Mother was thinking, listening to that silly woman’s wild accusations. She’s always had a screw loose somewhere, and this has given her just the excuse she was looking for to make a fuss about things.’

  ‘Do you mean your Aunt Ursula?’

  ‘Who else? I hear you’ve met her, so you must have seen for yourself how batty she is.’

  ‘Do you really think so? I shouldn’t have used that word myself. She appeared quite rational to me.’

  ‘To you, perhaps, but of course you are an outsider. For my part it seems as though everywhere I turn these days there she is, dropping dark hints to me about I don’t know what.’

  ‘What kind of hints?’

  He gestured impatiently.

  ‘Why, I don’t know. Something about having discovered something that I should rather nobody knew about. I haven’t the faintest idea what she meant.’

  ‘She said she had discovered something about you?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘And you have no idea at all what it was?’

  ‘None at all. Perhaps you should ask Mother and Father. Apparently they are in on the secret too.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘What was it she said? Something like, “I know all about you and your mother. John has tried to keep it quiet all these years, but I have had my suspicions for some time now. Make no mistake—I could tell all if I wished to, but I won’t for now. I must decide how to proceed.” You see? Bats.’

  ‘Do you or your mother have any dark secrets you should rather nobody knew about?’ asked Angela as lightly as she could.

  ‘I have none at all, unless she was referring to the fact that I am rather deeply in debt to my tailor. But Mother found out about that last week—that was an uncomfortable few minutes, I can tell you! As for Mother, you shall have to ask her yourself. Perhaps she has a murky past that none of us knows about, but of course you would know that better than anyone, as you have known her for longer.’

  Angela smiled, then asked, ‘Could she have been referring to her suspicions about the deaths of your aunts and uncle, do you think?’

  ‘I expect it had something to do with that. I do wish she would say what she meant, though. We all know she suspects something or someone, but she won’t say exactly what or whom, except that Father is meant to know all about it. She just hints darkly, and that’s no use to anyone. We shall never find out what happened that way.’

  ‘Well, that is why I am here, to try and find out the truth. Let us start with your Aunt Philippa. Ursula has suggested that she may have been poisoned by someone who put digitalin in her food, as the manner of her death was consistent with her having had a heart attack. Now, as I understand it, that evening you all had mulligatawny soup, followed by lamb and a soufflé and then coffee. I have never poisoned anybody myself, but I imagine the easiest way to do it would be to put it in either the soup or the coffee.’

  ‘I should say you are right,’ he agreed.

  ‘But which was it? It all depends on opportunity. How is the soup served in this house, by the way? I mean, is it brought in in a tureen or in separate dishes?’

  ‘We have a large tureen for that kind of thing.’

  ‘Very good. So you see, if our hypothetical murderer wished to poison the soup, he must have found a way to introduce it into Philippa’s dish after it had been served to her, otherwise you would all have been taken ill. Do you remember who was sitting next to her at the table that evening?’

  ‘Probably me,’ said Donald. ‘I usually sat next to her. I don’t know who was on her other side, though. And I didn’t put anything in her soup.’

  ‘No. I imagine it would be very difficult to introduce a drug into someone’s food without their noticing, in fact. That leaves the coffee, which seems to be an altogether more likely prospect. How was that served?’

  ‘It’s always served from a coffee pot which is left on the side for everyone to help themselves or each other.’

  ‘And you don’t remember who helped whom to coffee that evening?’

  ‘Hardly, after all this time.’

  ‘I thought not—and I doubt anyone else does either. Your mother said something about Philippa’s complaining about the food. Do you recall that?’

  ‘No. Aunt Philippa fussed rather a lot, you know, so one would tend not to notice.’

  ‘Yes. Very well, now we come to your Aunt Winifred. I understand you were the first to reach her when she fell.’

  ‘Was I? I don’t remember.’

  ‘Your cousin Robin said so.’

  ‘I suppose I must have been, then. Yes—now you mention it, I do seem to remember seeing everyone rushing out of the drawing-room into the hall, so I must have been there first, mustn’t I?’

  ‘What were you doing in the hall?’

  ‘Why, I heard the cry, of course. I had been looking for Father in the study, but he wasn’t there, and I was just coming out when she fell. I ran along and there she was, lying on the floor. Wait a minute, though—’ he stopped. ‘Of course, I remember it all now. I wasn’t there first at all. Robin must have got there before me, because he was kneeling next to her when I arrived.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘Absolutely. I remember it distinctly.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Looking for her pulse, I expect. He sat back in a hurry when he saw me, then said, “I don’t know how it happened, Don.” Then everyone else came running out and he bent back over her and said “She’s dead!” Then he was sick and had to go and lie down for a while.’

  ‘So everyone thought she had fallen accidentally. And why should you think any differently? It was only when Edward died that suspicions began to arise. One might almost say that to lose two relatives may be regarded as a misfortune, but to lose three looks like—what, Donald?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened to Uncle Edward,’ said Donald. ‘Nobody does. And I doubt we’ll ever find out.’

  ‘Then you don’t subscribe to the theory that the three of them were murdered?’

  Donald’s face darkened and assumed a curious expression.

  ‘I have my own views,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose anyone will share them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Angela asked, taken aback at the sudden intensity of his manner.

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you that a house may have a personality of its own?’

  ‘Why, I—’

  ‘Underwood House is more than one hundred and fifty years old,’ said Donald eagerly. ‘Think of all the things it has seen in that time! Births and deaths and marriages, and love and hatred—perhaps even violence. You may think me crazy, Mrs. Marchmont, but I believe that buildings can absorb the influence, or the energy, of those who live in them, and that they will grow to love those who love them best. Aunt Philippa and Aunt Winifred and Uncle Edward never liked the place. They plotted against it in order to get rid of it. And so it took its revenge.’

  ‘Do you mean you believe the house itself killed them?’

  He waved a hand.

  ‘Nothing so simple. I am not so mad as to believe that a building is capable of putting poison in someone’s coffee or pushing them over a balustrade. Of course not. That would be absurd. But I do believe in sympathies. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I am certain that there was some mysterious influence at work, one which we are unable to understand—may never understand, in fact.’

  An almost fanatical light had come into his eyes. Angela was quite startled at how suddenly his detached manner had transformed into something altogether more impassioned.

  ‘I take it that you are fond of Underwood House, then?’ she said.

  ‘Why should it come as a surprise that a man sh
ould feel affection for his childhood home?’ said Donald. ‘Father is exactly the same.’

  ‘I can understand it in your case,’ said Angela, ‘because you were brought up here by loving parents who were able to shield you from your grandfather’s influence to some extent, but I have always understood that your father had an unhappy childhood at Underwood. His brother and sisters certainly had no fondness for the place if they wanted to get rid of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe Father suffered quite as much as the others. He is far more easy-going by nature, you know, and was usually sensible enough to remove himself when any scenes arose. The others were younger and took things much more to heart. Besides, he’s terribly wedded to the idea of his responsibility as the eldest son to carry on the family name and pass on the estate. You know of course that I was adopted? Now, let me tell you that I have never been allowed to feel it—rest assured that no natural son could have been more kindly treated. But it must inevitably have been a source of private disappointment to Father that he and Mother were unable to have their own children, although of course he is much too honourable to say anything about it. And I know it was a blow to him when Grandfather left Underwood to all four of his children, instead of to Father alone. I think he may have felt it a reproach for his inability to pass on the house to a “true” Haynes. But I am as much a Haynes as any of them,’ he went on, still with the same fiery glint in his eye, ‘and when the house becomes mine one day everyone shall know it.’

  ‘Do you expect to inherit the house, then? I thought Ursula and your cousin Susan had an interest?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think Susan has already agreed to sell her share to Father, and he hopes that Aunt Ursula will do the same eventually, although I can’t see her giving it up without a fight.’

  Just then, Louisa Haynes entered with a distracted air.

  ‘Has anybody seen Stella or Guy?’ she asked. ‘It’s nearly lunch-time. Angela, darling, you will stay to lunch, won’t you?’

  ‘I believe they went for a walk in the grounds,’ said Angela, ‘and yes please.’

  ‘Those children have the most dreadful habit of disappearing just before meals. I don’t know what is to be done with them,’ said Louisa. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. The bell will ring in a minute, and if they miss it then they shall just have to do without.’