The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7)

by Clara Benson

  Very soon they drew up before the great house and Angela alighted. In some obscure way she felt that this visit to her brother constituted a sort of penance for her sins, and so she marshalled her forces and determined that this week at least nobody should be able to say she had not behaved impeccably.

  Humphrey and Elisabeth came out to greet her, stiff and formal.

  ‘Hallo, Angela,’ said Humphrey and shook hands with her, since the idea of kissing her would never have occurred to him. This had always irritated Angela, but she smiled and instead kissed Elisabeth before that lady could step back.

  ‘How lovely to see you both,’ said Angela. ‘I do hope you’ll pardon my dreadful unpunctuality, but I’m afraid it simply couldn’t be helped. I was laid up all last week, you see, and couldn’t make it back in time.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ said Elisabeth politely, noting Angela’s sun-tan and general air of well-being. ‘You seem much better now, though.’

  ‘Yes, I am, thank you,’ said Angela. ‘You look very well yourself, Elisabeth. Goodness,’ she went on, as they stepped through the door and into the hall, ‘It must be more than fifteen years since I was here, and it still looks exactly the same. I always loved this rose pattern on the wallpaper, and you’ve kept it just as it was when I left. How delightful.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, I’ve always hated it,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but we have somehow never found the time to change it. Perhaps we’ll do it next year.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angela, momentarily disconcerted. ‘Well, I’m sure that whenever you do change it, it will be quite splendid. You have such good taste, Elisabeth.’

  Here she stopped for she felt she was beginning to gush.

  There was an awkward pause, then Humphrey said:

  ‘Shall we go in to tea?’

  They all seized upon this thankfully and went into the drawing-room. This had evidently been redone since Angela left, for she barely recognized it. She looked about her and was mildly interested to note that she felt no sadness or feelings of nostalgia, but merely a polite interest in what had been done to the room. She stepped over to the window and saw that the garden looked much the same as ever, which pleased her, for she had been fond of running around outside as a girl. A man she did not recognize was trundling a wheelbarrow along the path, and she wondered again how many of the old servants remained. Many of them had undoubtedly gone to war and most likely some of them had not returned, while it was not unreasonable to assume that others had merely found work that paid better and left.

  Tea, of course, was very stiff and proper. Angela sat, straight-backed, on the edge of her seat, and nodded politely while Humphrey recounted some interminable story about the sale of half an acre of land to a neighbouring farmer. She was just about to ask a pertinent question to show that she had been listening when her attention was caught by the butler, who happened to be passing.

  ‘Why, it’s Joseph, isn’t it?’ she said without thinking. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  ‘It’s Doggett now, if you please, madam,’ he said, with an embarrassed glance at Humphrey.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Angela. ‘I can see you’re terribly important now. Well, I must say you hardly look a day older than you did the last time I saw you. Is the swing you put up for me still there? I must look for it tomorrow.’

  ‘Doggett, do stop bothering Mrs. Marchmont and go and see to the silver,’ said Elisabeth coldly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, your ladyship,’ said Doggett, and went out. Angela smiled apologetically at him as he passed, and reminded herself that chatting with the servants was not considered the done thing now that she was a grown woman. It was rather a pity, she thought. Joseph Doggett had been one of her friends in the old days, when he was a young under-footman, and she determined to speak to him later, when Humphrey and Elisabeth were not about.

  ‘You won’t mind visiting Mrs. Hunter, of course,’ said Humphrey then. ‘She knows you are coming and is very keen to find out what you have been doing for the past few years. I have told her you will visit tomorrow.’

  Angela’s heart sank, for she remembered the vicar’s wife of old. Mrs. Hunter was a big-boned woman with a booming voice, who had the tendency to bombard one with impertinent questions and then pass on the answers—real or imagined—to the entire neighbourhood. She would much rather not have visited, but saw that she had been presented with a fait accompli and could not get out of it.

  ‘By the way, I’ve given you your old room,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I thought you’d like it. Peter sleeps there sometimes, but otherwise it’s quite unoccupied. The weather is pleasant enough at the moment so it oughtn’t to be too cold.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m sure it will be quite warm,’ agreed Angela, who was starting to feel that her penance was a little more than she deserved. Her old room was at the side of the house, overlooking the kitchen-yard, and had little to recommend it, being dark, damp and poky. Angela was quite certain that it would never have been given to any other guest, and could only assume that Elisabeth had chosen it out of some misplaced desire to make her visitor feel at home, since it was not to be supposed that any deliberate humiliation had been intended.

  The conversation was beginning to flag when Humphrey suddenly remembered that Angela had been travelling in Italy, and began to question her closely about what she had done there. Since Angela had spent much of her holiday investigating a murder and consorting on the friendliest terms with a known criminal—neither of which pursuit was likely to impress her brother with the idea of her respectability—she was forced to tread very carefully when replying so as not to give herself away. Fortunately she was rescued by the arrival of Kathie Montgomery and her son Peter, and shortly afterwards, of Mrs. Randall, the mother of Kathie and Elisabeth. Kathie greeted her cheerfully, and for the first time in the past hour Angela felt as though someone at least was genuinely pleased to see her.

  The teapot was replenished and the newcomers all sat down, and Angela was happy to be spared the necessity of talking for a while, since the others all appeared to have plenty to say to one another. She sat, lost in her own thoughts, until she suddenly became aware that young Peter was staring at her fixedly. He blushed and looked at the floor when he saw that she had spotted him, and Angela took the opportunity to rub hurriedly at her face, just in case he had seen a smudge of something there. After a moment he raised his eyes cautiously to her again, and she pulled a face at him. He looked away and seemed to be trying not to laugh. After that, tea became much more fun as the two of them engaged in a game to see which of them could make the other giggle first. Angela thought she was winning until Peter pulled a face of such startling and appalling monstrosity that she let out a laugh before she could stop herself. She covered it immediately with a cough, and said:

  ‘I forgot to ask about the boys, Elisabeth. How are they getting on at school?’

  As she spoke, she saw Peter wrinkle his nose in disgust, and guessed rightly that he did not think much of Horace and Clarence, the Cardews’ sons, who must be about sixteen and fourteen now, if she remembered correctly. She had thought them rather beastly herself when she had met them, although Humphrey and Elisabeth evidently believed them to be the finest boys who had ever lived. Angela listened as Elisabeth enumerated all the certificates and prizes her sons had won that term alone, and offered her congratulations. Her entrance into the conversation had evidently brought her to the attention of Mrs. Randall, for the latter now observed her closely through a lorgnette, and then entirely without preamble or tact said:

  ‘And where is Mr. Marchmont?’

  Angela opened her mouth to reply, then looked at Elisabeth and closed it again.

  ‘In America at present,’ she said at last. It seemed the safest answer.

  ‘Of course, you lived in America for many years, didn’t you, Angela?’ said Elisabeth in an attempt to divert the subject away from personal matters. ‘And how did you like New York?’

  But Mrs. Randall, undaunted,
was still eyeing Angela through the lorgnette. Suddenly her brow cleared.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ she said in triumph. ‘I remember your name now. You were mentioned in the newspapers in connection with that dreadful murder down on the Romney Marsh. You were the one to find the body, I believe.’

  ‘Er—’ said Angela, glancing once again at Elisabeth, who had pursed her lips.

  ‘And they said you solved the murder, too,’ continued Mrs. Randall. ‘Of course, one can never believe a word one reads in the newspapers, but there must be something about you if it’s true. One doesn’t see many women detectives. It must be tremendously exciting.’

  There was no sense in denying it at this point, so Angela said:

  ‘To be perfectly honest, it’s been mostly accidental up to now, but I confess it has been very interesting.’

  ‘I don’t quite think—’ began Elisabeth.

  ‘I dare say you have lots of friends in the police and in the—what do they call it?—ah, yes, the criminal underworld,’ went on Mrs. Randall happily.

  ‘Let me show you your room, Angela,’ said Elisabeth, who felt the need to act.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Angela and jumped up immediately, although she knew perfectly well where her room was. The two ladies left the drawing-room, of one accord for once, and Angela allowed herself to be escorted up to the small box-room in which she had slept as a child. There she found that Marthe had already unpacked her luggage and pointedly lit a fire to take off the chill, even though it was early June.

  ‘You’ll find everything quite comfortable,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but do ring if there is anything you require.’

  She then left hurriedly, leaving Angela to gaze about her and try to summon up some feelings of warmth and regret for her old home. Pleasantly situated and comfortable as it was, she was disturbed to find that she felt nothing. She wandered over to the window and looked out into the kitchen-yard. William was down there, smoking and flirting with one of the maids, and she smiled and turned away. An old, white-painted cupboard stood in the corner of the room and she pulled open the door and looked inside. One or two items of clothing hung there, but nothing that had ever been hers. None of her old toys were here either; in fact, the house seemed to retain no impression of her at all. She had never been precisely unhappy at Two Tithes, but somehow she had never felt as though she belonged here, and odd though it sounded, she wondered whether perhaps the house felt the same. She laughed at her fancy and closed the cupboard door.

  ‘You’re going soft in the head, Angela,’ she said to herself, and went out.

  THREE

  The next day brought warm, hazy sunshine, and after breakfast Angela excused herself and said she was going to take a solitary walk around the grounds and reacquaint herself with the place.

  ‘You won’t stay out too long, will you?’ said Elisabeth. ‘I shall need your help with the rosettes and the bunting for the fête.’

  ‘And don’t forget you are to visit Mrs. Hunter this afternoon,’ added Humphrey.

  Angela promised to return in good time, and set off before one or both of them could suggest walking with her. She crossed the garden briskly and passed through the field beyond, then began to climb up the hill that lay behind the house. From the other side of this hill it was possible to see as far as London on a clear day, although there was too much haze today, so she stopped a little way up and turned to look back at the house. Two Tithes was a typical, rambling old country place which had been owned by the Cardews since the previous century. It was certainly attractive enough, set as it was among flower gardens and smooth lawns, with fields and woods beyond it and a little stream running along the edge of the grounds, and yet still Angela was unable to call it home. She supposed she had never been the type to indulge in nostalgia and could not regret having left, for she knew that had she stayed she should have felt like a captive. No: Humphrey had the house and was welcome to it. She was quite content to consider herself merely a visitor.

  She came back down the hill and passed through the fields and beyond the boundaries of Two Tithes, then drifted along a lonely path through a tunnel of trees, hat in hand, with only the pleasantest of thoughts in her head and a smile on her face of which she was completely unaware. She was proceeding along the path, not paying a great deal of attention to her surroundings, when she suddenly became aware of a low growling, and she raised her head to see an irritable-looking bull terrier standing on the path before her. There was no mistaking the menace in its demeanour.

  ‘Oh!’ said Angela, and stopped. The dog began to approach her, still growling, and she backed away, eyeing it nervously. ‘Good boy,’ she ventured. The dog gave a scornful sneeze at such patently insincere praise, and kept on advancing until it had her pinned against a tree. Then it let out a loud bark and she squeaked in surprise.

  ‘Dear me,’ she said. Glancing about for the dog’s owner, she turned her head and found herself staring into the barrel of a shotgun. She gave another squeak.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the newcomer, lowering his gun. ‘Down, Skipper! Here, boy!’

  The dog gave one last disgusted growl and padded over to its owner, who turned out to be a tall, hearty man of sixty or more with unkempt hair sticking out from under a deer-stalker hat.

  ‘I hope we didn’t frighten you too much,’ said the man. ‘I thought you were someone else, and one can’t be too careful. I’m not fond of trespassers, you see.’

  Angela stepped away from the tree, keeping a wary eye on the dog, and replaced her hat as she composed herself. She bit back the words that had initially come into her head, and said:

  ‘It’s Mr. Norris, isn’t it? I remember you. I’m Angela, from Two Tithes. Humphrey’s sister.’

  The man squinted at her, then straightened up. His expression cleared and immediately became more friendly.

  ‘Ha! So it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Back again. How long has it been? Ten years?’

  ‘Nearer twenty, I think,’ said Angela.

  ‘So long?’ he said. He appeared to have found his manners now, and was looking at her appreciatively. ‘Well, you’re quite the elegant lady now, aren’t you? I remember when you were barely this high, all curly hair and mischief, and would as rather be covered in mud as not. The curls are still there, I see, but I must say I hardly recognize the rest. What’s your name now? I don’t suppose you’re still a Cardew. And where have you been hiding for all these years?’

  ‘My name is Marchmont now,’ said Angela, ‘and I’ve been living in America and London.’

  ‘America, eh?’ said Mr. Norris. ‘A man of mine was there for a while. Ben Shaw. Do you know him?’

  Angela forbore to point out that the United States was not a village bowls club but a large nation with many millions of inhabitants, and merely said politely:

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘And now you’re back. Visiting family, I expect. The Sir and Lady. Not as la-di-da as her, though, I’ll bet.’

  Angela affected not to know what he was talking about, and said:

  ‘Is this your land, then? I’m awfully sorry if I was trespassing. I didn’t mean to.’

  He drew himself up.

  ‘It most certainly is my land,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to law to prove that Dead Man’s Path is mine, and prove it I shall one of these days. I’m not an unreasonable man: I know this is the quickest way through to Banford and I won’t stop anyone from using the path who doesn’t cause me any harm, but I will defend it if I have to. I won’t let what’s mine be taken from me.’

  ‘Who is trying to take it from you?’ said Angela.

  Mr Norris’s face darkened.

  ‘There are some who would have it that the path is common land,’ he said. ‘But it’s most certainly mine, and if that’s the way they want to play the game then I’ll show them what’s right and what’s wrong. There’s no call to stand up against me and try to deny me my rights.’

  ‘I see,’ said
Angela, and then, since he seemed to want her to ask, went on, ‘Who has tried to deny you your rights?’

  But he did not reply, and indeed was no longer looking at her but at something over her shoulder. Angela turned and saw that someone else was approaching. As he came closer she could see that he was a man of similar age to Mr. Norris. He was dressed in aged tweeds, and he, too, had a shotgun and a dog. The two men scowled at one another and the dogs began to growl, but then the second man spotted Angela. He nodded to her politely, then passed on without a word. Mr. Norris, fingering his shotgun, watched him until he was out of sight. It seemed to Angela that her question had been answered, and she said curiously:

  ‘Who was that? I don’t believe I recognize him.’

  ‘That is Tom Tipping,’ said Mr. Norris in a tone of deep disgust, ‘and if you’ll take my advice you’ll have nothing to do with him, for he’s the worst sort of neighbour and he’ll have the shirt off your back before you know it. He’s cheated me out of my rights once before, but I won’t let him do it again.’

  ‘Is he the one who says that this is common land?’

  ‘That’s him, all right,’ said Norris, ‘and it’s lucky for him you were here, or I’d have seen him off. I won’t let him pass, you see. Not until he admits the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Just to avoid confusion, then,’ said Angela, ‘am I to understand that you allow all those who agree that this is your land to use it, while those who don’t agree are warned off?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ he said, nodding. ‘Most people are sensible enough about it, but there’s no making Tom Tipping see sense. And he will walk along the path just to provoke me. I’ve told him I won’t be held responsible for what I do if he keeps at it, but he doesn’t listen. Mark my words, though, one day he’ll regret it. If he thinks I won’t use my shotgun against him he’s wrong.’