The Mystery at Underwood House

by Clara Benson

  Very well, then, take Philippa’s death out of the picture and what was left? Edward. Angela shook her head. She was as certain as she could be that Edward Haynes had not drowned accidentally but had been murdered. But what was the motive? There seemed to be none—or if there was, it was not, as far as Angela could see, the same as the one which had presumably led Winifred to her doom. No, on the face of it there seemed to be no connection between Edward’s death and Winifred’s other than the fact that they had both died at the gatherings ordained by Philip’s will. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Could they have been killed by two different people? But no—that was no good as a theory either, since there was also the inescapable fact that Philippa, too, had died at one of the gatherings. That was stretching coincidence too far.

  And then there was the feeling she had, one which she could not put into words, something that told her that, unknown to them all, there was a single, unseen hand at work behind the scenes, conducting events and impelling people to act. She had nothing to back it up, but her instinct told her it was true: that somehow, someone was influencing the Hayneses, Mr. Faulkner, the police—everybody concerned with the case, to act as he wanted.

  ‘It’s almost as though we are all dolls, being danced around idiotically on the stage by an invisible puppet-master,’ she murmured to herself. ‘But who can it be?’

  She had missed something, she was sure of it. A clue or a vital piece of evidence. What was it, now? Something that would provide the key to the whole mystery. She cast her mind back. Was it something John had said to her that morning? Something to do with forget-me-nots, perhaps? Angela gave a wry smile at that. And she was sure there was something that she had been going to ask Stella the other day. What could it be?

  ‘I must be getting old,’ she said. ‘My memory is obviously not what it was. I shall have to sleep on it.’

  Then, in a spirited act of defiance against the hateful god Geras, she went out dancing and did not return home until past three.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mrs. Marchmont was just removing her hat and coat after returning from lunch with a friend when she heard the bell ring. Marthe answered it.

  ‘Please, madame,’ she said, ‘there is a woman downstairs who wishes to speak to you.’

  Her tone was not lost on Angela.

  ‘A woman?’

  Marthe clicked her tongue.

  ‘A lady, then. Although she was not very polite. Her name is Ursula Haynes.’

  Angela was surprised. What on earth was Ursula doing here? She suddenly felt a little nervous.

  ‘Let her in, Marthe,’ she said. She straightened up and smoothed her hair, then chided herself for her timidity.

  Ursula arrived and looked about her, unsmiling. She was dressed smartly but severely in dark blue. There was no decoration about her, no trimming.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said. ‘I have come to speak to you about my son, Robin.’

  ‘Please, do sit down,’ said Angela. ‘Marthe, bring us some coffee.’

  ‘I should prefer tea,’ said Ursula.

  ‘Tea, then.’

  Marthe acquiesced without a word and went out. Ursula sat down on the edge of a chair but did not speak. Perhaps she was collecting her thoughts. Angela waited, determined not to be the first to break the silence.

  ‘As I am sure you know, the police want to arrest my son,’ said Mrs. Haynes finally.

  Angela bowed her head.

  ‘Yes, Louisa told me,’ she said.

  Ursula looked up sharply.

  ‘That is odd, because I rather thought you had told Louisa,’ she said.

  ‘I?’

  ‘You deny, then, that it was you who reported Robin to the police for fraudulent share-dealing?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ said Angela truthfully.

  ‘A wholly trumped-up charge, I might add. I know he has enemies within the firm who have been looking for an opportunity to discredit him, although I never dreamed they would stoop to this.’

  Her voice was filled with suppressed fury and her eyes gleamed.

  ‘I understand he went missing before the police could arrest him,’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes. My son has a delicate disposition, and naturally the prospect of arrest filled him with horror in spite of his innocence, so he has gone into hiding.’

  ‘Surely it would be better for him to face the music now, rather than dragging it out,’ said Angela. ‘After all, they are bound to catch him sooner or later and if he really is innocent then he ought to be here to defend himself. You can’t deny that his running off like that looks very suspicious. If he came out into the open then he could fight the accusations. The police are only concerned with catching the right man, you know, and if they have made a mistake then sooner or later it will be found out.’

  Ursula gave her a withering look.

  ‘How very credulous you are, Mrs. Marchmont, if you believe that. At Peake’s Robin is surrounded by people who plot against him and seek his downfall. They will have made certain that there was plenty of evidence against him before they made their move.’

  This seemed so unlikely that Angela wondered at the blindness of a mother’s love.

  ‘Are you quite sure of that?’ she asked. ‘Why should he take Winifred’s money, in that case?’

  ‘Stupid woman!’ spat Ursula, quite startling Angela, who wondered for a second whom she was referring to. ‘She gave him the money quite of her own free will and badgered him to invest it for her. I know all about it—he told me what happened after the police first came to question him. She was dissatisfied with the return her inheritance was bringing in and was casting about for a way in which to increase her income. He was unwilling to take her money, as he felt that she did not truly understand the nature of the risks she was running even though he had explained them carefully to her, but she was quite insistent. In the end he relented since she was family, but shortly afterwards disaster struck on the markets and all the money was lost.’

  ‘The police seem to think that he used the money to shore up the losses he had already made through his own speculation,’ hazarded Angela.

  ‘Then they are dolts. It’s all stuff and nonsense, I tell you.’

  Marthe arrived with the tea and there was a short pause in the conversation as she served them. Ursula took a delicate sip, pursed her lips and put her cup down.

  ‘And to add to everything else, it now appears that the police suspect Robin of murdering Winifred,’ she said.

  ‘Is that what they told you?’

  ‘They did not say it in so many words, but I could see in which direction their questions were tending.’

  ‘What did Robin say to that?’

  ‘Of course he denied it, as it is not true.’

  ‘I believe the police found a letter to his aunt among his belongings, begging her not to report him. Perhaps that is what made them start considering a possible connection to her death.’

  ‘The letter was a forgery, no doubt,’ said Ursula flatly.

  There was no arguing with such wilful self-delusion, so Angela made no reply. Ursula sat stiffly for a minute or two longer then rose from her seat and began to pace up and down restlessly.

  ‘You are no doubt wondering what is the purpose of my visit,’ she said. ‘Obviously I did not come here merely for the pleasure of chatting idly about my son.’ She looked hard at Angela. ‘The events of the past few days have come as a complete shock to me. It is not often that I am caught at a disadvantage, but on this occasion I find myself quite at a loss to know where to turn for assistance. I want to find my son and demonstrate his innocence, but the police are determined to do quite the opposite: find him and prove him guilty, so there is no help to be had from them. I have no family of my own and the Hayneses will do nothing, I know. That is why I thought of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I should like to engage the services of a detective, and you are the only one I know.’

  Angela
shook her head.

  ‘I am afraid you are mistaken,’ she said. ‘I am not a private investigator. I was unfortunate enough to become embroiled in a rather notorious murder case a few months ago, and the newspapers somehow got the fanciful notion that I had solved the mystery. Louisa believed it all too, and I only agreed to help her because she is an old friend.’

  ‘Then what am I to do?’ cried Ursula suddenly in despair. To Angela’s horror, she sank back into her chair, covered her face with her hands and wept. Angela looked about her desperately, wondering what on earth to do next, then searched fruitlessly in her pockets for a clean handkerchief. Fortunately, Marthe came to the rescue, presenting Ursula with the necessary article and pressing a cup of strong tea upon her. By this time, Angela had recovered her presence of mind and changed seats to sit next to her guest, who had unexpectedly proved herself to be human after all.

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Ursula, regaining her composure and lowering the handkerchief to reveal reddened eyes.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Angela. ‘I quite understand. And I am very sorry that I am unable to help you.’

  She placed her hand on Ursula’s arm in a gesture of sympathy. Ursula stiffened and drew back.

  ‘Well,’ she said, turning her face away. ‘I did not have much hope of success. But I am quite alone and cannot help Robin by myself.’

  ‘If you will permit me to say so,’ ventured Angela hesitantly, ‘you can most usefully help your son by hiring the best defence counsel you can afford.’

  Ursula looked at her bleakly.

  ‘You, too, believe him to be guilty, then,’ she said. Angela said nothing, and she sighed, as though finally forced to accept the inevitable. ‘I am quite alone,’ she repeated.

  ‘Then call Louisa,’ said Angela decidedly. ‘She is kind and will give you all the help she can if you will only let her.’

  ‘But John hates me.’

  ‘I don’t believe John hates anybody,’ said Angela, smiling. ‘He is impatient, certainly, and does not suffer fools gladly, but he, too, is kind at heart.’

  ‘That is what you say, but I am not so easily deceived.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why, can’t you see how he has benefited from the deaths of his sisters and my husband? And now he has somehow convinced the police that Robin killed Winifred. I dare say it is only a matter of time before they decide he must have killed Edward and Philippa too. My son is not a murderer.’

  ‘For what it may be worth, Mrs. Haynes, I agree with you,’ said Angela. ‘But unless we can find out who did kill them then he will be forever under suspicion.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Ursula.

  ‘I believe you can help me,’ Angela went on. ‘I believe you know, or think you know something about what happened. You tried to get information from Mr. Faulkner but he could not or would not help you. Will you tell me what you suspect?’

  Ursula looked up, surprised.

  ‘What do you know about Mr. Faulkner?’ she demanded, then gazed at Angela through narrowed eyes for a moment or two, as though weighing the decision.

  ‘You are a friend of John and Louisa’s,’ she said finally. ‘You are investigating on their behalf, and so naturally that will colour your conclusions. Perhaps you may even be persuaded to alter the facts a little in order to help them, to the disadvantage of my son.’

  ‘I assure you I shall do no such thing,’ said Angela with dignity. ‘I have told Louisa repeatedly that I shall not flinch from the truth, however unpalatable it may be, and she has agreed with me that I ought not to.’

  Ursula stared at her for another long moment, but it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Finally she looked away and said, ‘You are mistaken, Mrs. Marchmont. I have nothing to tell you.’ She stood up. ‘I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I shall do as you suggest and engage a legal adviser.’

  Angela saw there was no use in pressing her.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Do think about what I said. I promise you that I am concerned only with finding out the truth.’

  Again Ursula gave her that assessing look, then left without another word.

  TWENTY-THREE

  In spite of all the best efforts of Scotland Yard, Robin Haynes could not be found. No-one of his description had been apprehended trying to leave the country, or escaping to the North on the train, or hiding in a barn. His mother still claimed to have no idea where he was—not that anyone dared question her too closely. In fact, it was not until Inspector Jameson took over the business of talking to Ursula himself that even that slight admission could be drawn from her. For the most part the police contented themselves with keeping a discreet eye on her from a distance, since even the stoutest of English bobbies has been known to quail before a certain type of elderly lady.

  Angela, meanwhile, went down to Underwood on the train, this time in the hope of speaking to Stella in private. As she approached the house, she encountered Mr. Briggs as he pushed a heavy wheelbarrow with difficulty across the lawn. He beamed as he recognized her.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Another fine day we’re having for the time of year.’

  Resisting the temptation to offer to help him with his load, Angela returned his salute.

  ‘I see you have managed to get the ivy looking beautifully neat,’ she said, gazing up at Donald’s bedroom window.

  ‘Yes, and a devil of a time we had of it too—begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Young Thomas nearly came off his ladder more ’n once. He always was a foolhardy one, mind you. He’ll break bones before he’s much older, you mark my words.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Mr. Donald must be pleased to have a view out of his window again,’ she said. She was about to pass on when a thought struck her. ‘Wasn’t that Miss Christina’s room at one time?’ she said. ‘I believe you told me something of the kind.’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ replied the old gardener.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Haynes was telling me her story the other day,’ said Angela. ‘It was all terribly sad, of course.’

  ‘It was, ma’am. Mrs. Haynes, God rest her soul, was dreadful cut up about it. Some might say she never recovered, although it wasn’t until a few years later that she died.’

  ‘I understand that Christina and her father did not get along at all well.’

  ‘No, they didn’t. He was all for the de-mewer young ladies, was Mr. Haynes. By his way of thinking, they should all sit nicely in the parlour with their hands folded, looking pretty. But Miss Christina, she always was a wild one. She liked to run about in the woods and climb trees like a boy. I heard she used to swim in the lake, too—and I never saw a finer horsewoman.’

  ‘Indeed? That must often have brought her into conflict with her father.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. My, how they quarrelled! And then he would shut her in her room to teach her a lesson, but there was no holding a girl like that.’ He snickered admiringly. ‘He never knew it, but she used to climb out of the window and shin down that very ivy what we’ve been talking about. Just like the ivy herself, she was—you could never keep her down.’

  ‘She must have been a most enterprising young lady.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. She was that.’

  ‘And then of course there was the final quarrel that led to her running away,’ said Angela carelessly, as though she knew all about it. ‘There was a young man involved, wasn’t there?’

  Mr. Briggs looked surprised.

  ‘Oh, so Mr. John told you that, did he? I thought they preferred to keep the scandal well hidden. Mind, there’s plenty of water flowed under the bridge since then, so I suppose he thought there was no harm in it, seeing as she’s long dead and there’s no-one can hurt her any more.’

  Angela was gratified at her lucky guess.

  ‘Who was he?’ she asked.

  ‘A local lad from the farm yonder. Not one of her kind. Just like her wilfulness, it was, to pick someone she could neve
r marry. She stood her ground, too—wouldn’t hear of breaking it off when her family found out about it. But it was all a mistake, and in the end he proved unworthy of her.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Why, he put an end to it himself and near broke her heart at the same time. I did hear as Mr. Haynes bought him off, but I don’t know if there’s any truth to that. At any rate, shortly afterwards he died in an accident on the farm and by then it had all come out and it was too late for him to marry her even supposing they could have persuaded him to it.’

  ‘You don’t mean she was in trouble?’

  Briggs pursed his lips and lowered his voice confidentially.

  ‘That was the rumour in the servants’ hall, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I can’t say whether it’s true or not. And of course, we never did find out because two days after her young man was killed, she climbed down the ivy for the last time and was never seen again around these parts. A few years later we heard she’d died.’

  ‘And what about her child?’

  ‘Nobody knows. Some said it had died at birth, some said it had been taken in by a wealthy family and some said there had never been any child at all. Choose whichever story you like, ma’am—I don’t know which is the right one.’

  ‘Mr. John Haynes was dreadfully upset by the whole affair, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Briggs, nodding sagely. ‘They were mighty fond of each other, those two. He wasn’t so keen on his younger sisters and brother, Mr. John wasn’t—they were too much under the influence of their father, so there wasn’t much of what you might call sympathy between ’em. But he always looked after Miss Christina, his favourite, and I’m sure he would have taken her and the child in if he could have found them.’

  ‘Gossiping again, Mrs. Marchmont?’ said Guy Fisher, appearing suddenly at Angela’s shoulder and making her jump. ‘Briggs, I ought to warn you now, this lady is dangerous. If once you let her get into conversation with you, you will find yourself giving away all your guiltiest and innermost secrets before you know it. Why, within five minutes of meeting her, I involuntarily confessed to her that, as a child, I had been caught red-handed stealing apples from our neighbour’s orchard and soundly beaten by my mother. She now knows my history as a common thief and won’t believe a word I say ever again.’