by Clara Benson
‘But why should he do that?’ said Scott.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he did it accidentally or absent-mindedly,’ said Angela. She was careful not to accuse him of anything deliberate for she was fully aware, even at this early stage, of how important it was not to display any sign of outright hostility towards her dead husband.
Inspector Scott was an able enough man, but he was not the sort to go looking for difficulties where none apparently existed, and he had already pretty much made up his mind on this case.
‘Mrs. Marchmont, do you have any idea who killed your husband?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘My first thought when I saw him was that he had killed himself.’ She wanted to add, ‘Just to spite me,’ but thought better of it.
‘But there’s no gun. If he’d killed himself then there would be a gun next to the body.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘You didn’t happen to see a gun when you found your husband?’ said Scott. ‘And pick it up, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘Are you quite certain of that? You might have done it absent-mindedly or accidentally, just as your husband did with your keys.’
The inspector’s manner was bland, and he seemed to be offering her a way out, but she would not fall into the trap.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I hardly went near him. I certainly didn’t pick anything up.’
She looked up, saw Sergeant Willis hovering sympathetically in the background, and felt a little sorry for him, for they had always been on friendly terms and she imagined that he was feeling somewhat torn at present. As if in confirmation of her supposition, he offered her a half-smile and then turned away, looking uncomfortable. Inspector Scott had no such qualms, however.
‘Mrs. Marchmont, were you and your husband on good terms?’ he said abruptly.
‘We weren’t the best of friends, certainly,’ she replied. ‘That’s why we parted company. However, there was no particular animosity between us. We tolerated one another and were on civil terms, at least.’
Another lie. This one was slightly easier to tell than the first, and Angela was thankful that her arms were covered so that the bruises did not show.
‘Why did you give him money?’
‘Because he said he needed it,’ said Angela. ‘He was still my husband, after all.’
‘Didn’t he work?’
‘He found it difficult to hold down a job,’ said Angela shortly.
‘Are you sure that’s the only reason you gave him the money? He didn’t threaten you, for example?’
‘Of course not,’ said Angela. ‘I told you, we were on civil terms. He asked for the money and I gave it to him. I could afford it, after all.’ Here she only just managed to keep the bitterness out of her tone.
‘Do you own a gun?’ said Inspector Scott.
This was a facer, but after a moment’s reflection Angela decided that there was no sense in lying about it, since it was a matter of public record.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said.
‘Where is it?’
‘I keep it in the second drawer of that chest by the window,’ she said.
Scott nodded to Willis, who went to the chest, wrapped his hand in a handkerchief and carefully opened the second drawer.
‘It’s not there,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Angela. Now that she had determined on her course, it was becoming easier all the time to act the part. ‘Try the other drawers.’
But of course the chest of drawers contained no gun.
‘Might you have put it somewhere else?’ said Scott. His manner was becoming increasingly polite as his conviction of her guilt became more assured.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I always kept it there. Do you suppose the murderer took it?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Scott non-committally. As a matter of fact, he was half-inclined to arrest her there and then, but the lack of a weapon posed something of a difficulty. There was no doubt at all in his mind that Angela Marchmont had shot and killed her husband, but it would be difficult to prove that until they had found the gun. No doubt she had disposed of it somewhere, and he could only hope she had hidden it in the flat. The place would have to be searched, of course, and more evidence collected, but as far as Scott could see, it was an open-and-shut case.
Just then, the doorbell rang and suddenly the room was full of men with bags and cases and stretchers, who saw that the bereaved wife was present and so lowered their voices, trod carefully on the expensive Persian rugs, and tried not to knock into the furniture. Angela did her best to stay out of the way as they worked. She had remained calm so far, but it was partly out of a sense of disbelief at events, for it was perfectly obvious to her what was about to happen, and among all the confusion the one thing that stood out in her mind was a burning sense of resentment at her husband who, she was irrationally convinced, had done this deliberately to get her into trouble, for she could not think of a more perfect crime. The locked door, the missing weapon, the evidence of the cheque-book—all of this together painted a clear picture of a woman who had taken a gun and shot dead her husband in a fit of rage. And why should anyone think differently? It looked very much to Angela as though the police had a water-tight case against her. She had left the house at about nine o’clock the night before and (as far as the police knew) had returned just after midnight. At some time between nine and a quarter to seven that morning, Davie had come to the flat for reasons best known to himself, and had been shot dead. Unless it could be proved that Angela was out of the house when he was killed, then she would be arrested for his murder. But what if it turned out that he had died after midnight? Then she would have no alibi at all, for she could not—would not—confess where she had really been. That was quite impossible. No, the police must continue to think that she had spent the night at home, and she could only hope that the medical evidence would show that Davie had died before midnight, when several witnesses could confirm that she had been at the White Rabbit Ball. Perhaps it would even turn out that the gun which was used to kill Davie was not hers. But how could that be proved? There was no other weapon here, and she had, of course, given her own revolver to Edgar Valencourt, who was presumably on his way to France at this very minute. She had no way of sending a message to him, for she had no idea where he was going, and even if she had, he was unlikely to come forward with the gun, since he would be arrested immediately himself if he did. Despite all the things he had said, she did not suppose for a moment that his interest in her extended to getting himself into trouble. No, there was certainly no help to be expected from that quarter. The gun was gone and with it a vital piece of evidence.
At that moment she could see no way out, and a sense of defeat came upon her. She supposed that Davie had always meant to do her a bad turn in whatever way he could, although this was the last thing she had expected. Oddly, in the whirl of her thoughts she did not pause to wonder who really had killed her husband, for it did not seem to matter much. After all, why would the police bother looking for anyone else when they had a perfect suspect right before their eyes? She looked across to the other side of the room, where the police were working, and found Inspector Scott regarding her thoughtfully. He withdrew his gaze immediately but there was no doubt at all what he had been thinking. Angela turned away and stared at the wall. At that moment she felt more alone than she had ever done before.
EIGHT
The doctor soon pronounced it to be his considered opinion that David Marchmont had died at some time between eight o’clock on Saturday night and two o’clock on Sunday morning, and that death had occurred as a result of a gunshot to the head—most likely from a small-calibre weapon of some sort, perhaps a revolver. It then became a matter of some urgency to find the murder weapon. A search of Angela Marchmont’s flat was instituted, but turned up nothing. However, other evidence of some interest was unearthed. Firstly, the little chest of drawers in which Mrs. Marchmont claimed to have kept her revolver wa
s tested for finger-prints, and the results indicated that only she had touched it. Secondly, a search of Mr. Marchmont’s body revealed that he was not in possession of a key to the door of his wife’s flat, which suggested strongly that Mrs. Marchmont had let him in herself. On questioning, Mrs. Marchmont stated that she had no idea what had happened to her maid’s key, but guessed that perhaps the murderer had taken it. Be that as it may, it was certain that the key was missing and nobody knew where it might be. It was also remarked during the search of Davie’s pockets that he was carrying three gloves: one pair in tan suède and an odd one in dark grey. It was assumed, however, that he had lost the other grey glove and had forgotten to take its mate out of his pocket before coming out, and the fact was quickly forgotten.
The search of the flat continued for most of the day, and all the while Angela sat quietly, keeping out of everyone’s way and saying nothing unless asked a question by the police. Her husband’s remains were removed, along with a number of her personal effects, and still the search went on. At about three o’clock one of the men gave a sudden grunt of satisfaction, and announced that he had found the bullet. It had embedded itself into the wall next to a large painting, and there was some activity while they tried to get it out. Eventually it was removed, and the men congratulated one another at having retrieved it more or less undamaged. The same could not be said of the wall, however, which was now quite ruined. Angela considered saying something about it, but then decided against it, for it seemed to her that a hole in the plaster-work was quite the least of her worries.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Willis had been sent out to question the other people who lived in the building. Most of them had been out for all or part of the evening, but of the ones who preferred to remain at home on a Saturday night none had seen or heard Davie Marchmont arrive—for this was not the sort of building in which one neighbour spied on another, being inhabited mostly by wealthy people who were far too pleased with themselves and their own concerns to trouble their heads over what their fellow residents were doing at any given moment. Willis did manage to establish, however, that a number of loud bangs had been heard over the course of the evening, including several after midnight. Given that it was only a few days after the fifth of November, everyone had assumed that the noise was youngsters letting off fireworks, and had disregarded it as nothing more than a nuisance. According to one irate elderly woman, there had been one particularly loud bang just after ten, which was so loud that it almost seemed as though it had gone off in the building itself. Inspector Scott disregarded this when he heard it, since Mrs. Marchmont claimed to have an alibi for that time. Instead he concentrated his attention on the bangs that had been heard after midnight, for it seemed most likely that one of them had been the shot that killed Davie Marchmont.
After Willis had got all the information he could out of the other residents and reported back to Inspector Scott, the two men stood on the landing outside the flat and conversed in low voices. Mrs. Marchmont was inside, under the watchful eye of a police constable, although she seemed to have no intention of trying to make a run for it.
‘So, then,’ said Scott. ‘It’s all looking clear enough. Mrs. Marchmont comes home from this ball—incidentally, we’ll have to talk to the people she was with to confirm she was there at all. Still, let’s assume she was. She’s just got home when her husband turns up for a late-night visit, having already dunned her for money and made a nuisance of himself earlier in the week. They have a row—she says herself that she’d had a bit to drink—and she gets the gun out of the drawer and shoots him. Then she panics, disposes of the gun and calls us.’
‘After presumably going to bed and getting a good night’s sleep first,’ Willis could not help pointing out. ‘She didn’t call us until this morning, and her bed looked as though it had been slept in.’
‘It’s easy enough to rumple up a bed,’ said Scott dismissively.
‘But why did she wait so long before she called us?’
‘Who knows?’ said Scott. ‘Perhaps she spent the whole night looking for somewhere to dispose of the gun.’
‘Easy enough to get rid of a heavy object in London,’ said Willis. ‘You just drop it in the Thames.’
‘I expect that’s what she did in the end,’ said Scott. ‘But who’s to say how long it took her to come up with that idea? I don’t suppose she was thinking straight. Or perhaps I’m wrong—perhaps she’s just cold-hearted and callous enough to have got rid of the gun immediately and come home again. Perhaps she slept the sleep of the just all night while her husband lay in a pool of blood on the parquet in the next room.’
Willis opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. He was a good policeman and knew that he must not let his liking for Mrs. Marchmont obscure the facts, which, he had to admit, all pointed to her guilt.
‘I wonder what the money was for,’ went on Scott thoughtfully. ‘It was a tidy sum. I wonder whether he mightn’t have been blackmailing her. We’ll have to look into that. Something like that would be a big enough motive for murder.’
‘But she’d already paid him,’ said Willis.
‘Yes, but we don’t know whether he’d already cashed the cheque,’ said Scott. ‘Perhaps she decided to put him out of the way before he could do it. Or perhaps he’d come to ask her for more money. That’s the trouble with blackmailers: they never know when to stop. It might be that he pushed her a little too far, and she decided to put an end to it once and for all. I dare say it will all come out when we look more deeply into the thing. So, then,’ he went on, with a cheerfulness that was entirely misplaced, in Willis’s view, ‘I suppose we’d better take the lady in. I only wish all cases were as easy as this one. If we hurry, we can get back to the Yard and finish those reports by the end of the day.’
Willis thought of Inspector Jameson, away in Scotland with his new wife, and wished he had been the one to take the call. But no, he corrected himself; the Jamesons were friends of the chief suspect, and the inspector would never be allowed to investigate this case. Willis wondered what he would say when he found out what had happened. It was likely to be a shock to everyone, he thought.
The two men entered the flat and found Angela Marchmont and the police constable both sitting in silence. The other men had packed up and left, and but for the bloodstains behind the sofa and the hole in the wall one would never have known that a violent death had occurred here. Mrs. Marchmont looked up expectantly and showed no surprise as Scott announced that he was arresting her on suspicion of the murder of her husband and gave her the usual warnings.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do it, but I quite understand why you have to arrest me.’
She stood up and accepted the coat and hat that Sergeant Willis brought her. He still looked very uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to him, and meant it sincerely.
She took one last glance around the flat—it would be some time before she saw it again—and then the four of them left together and descended to the police-car that was waiting for them outside. As they drove off it began to rain again.
NINE
Mr. Addison, of Addison, Addison and Gouch, sat at the bare wooden table and tried his best not to look uncomfortable, although his chair was hard and he was generously built and he was worried that he might not be doing a very good job of it. He shifted slightly and glanced at his notebook.
‘I am glad you agree with our choice of defence counsel,’ he said to his client, Angela Marchmont, who was sitting at the other side of the table. ‘Mr. Travers is the very best there is. He could not be here today as he is in court for the poisoning case, but he has asked me to assure you that he believes there to be several weak points in the prosecution’s argument, and he will come to see you to discuss them as soon as he is able.’
‘I look forward to seeing him,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘I have met Mr. Travers once or twice in company and have always judged him to be a most capable man. I shall be interested to hea
r what he has to say.’
Angela was bearing up to the indignities of incarceration as well as might be expected in the circumstances, and was as politely interested as possible in what Mr. Addison was telling her, but in reality she had assumed the worst almost from the moment she had found her husband’s body. Even she had to admit that all the evidence pointed to her being the murderer, and more than once, in the middle of the cold, dark night, she had reached such a low pass as to wonder whether perhaps she had done it while in the grip of some sort of brainstorm, and had somehow forgotten it afterwards. Of course, she knew logically that whoever had killed Davie Marchmont, it was not she, and outwardly she tried to remain brisk and optimistic that some evidence would emerge to prove her innocence, but deep down she was racked by pangs of guilt over the lies she had told the police, and she could not silence the murmurings of the small voice in her head which told her repeatedly that she deserved everything she got.
Of all the incredible things about the case, it seemed to her that the most incredible was the fact that the only person who might give her an alibi for the fatal hour was the one man whose help she could not request, for he was far away—who knew where?—and to whom she had no means of sending a message. But even if she could somehow manage to get word to him, then what could he be expected to do? Present himself and confess cheerfully that at the fatal time the two of them had been driving into Kent to return a ruby brooch he had stolen to its rightful owner? Why, the very idea was absurd! And how would the court look upon her association with a notorious jewel-thief? She could hardly suppose that they would view it favourably, for, as she herself had to admit, most people would quite rightly say that there was no innocent reason at all for a married woman—even one separated from her husband—to spend the night in the company of a known criminal. Even though her intentions had been good, the whole incident appeared distinctly fishy and was likely to make her look even more guilty than she already did, since the proper thing to do, of course, would have been to report Valencourt to the police. Although, as she had said, she considered herself free of her husband following their separation, it was unlikely that the man in the street would find anything to approve of in her friendship (if so it could be called) with Edgar Valencourt—indeed, she did not particularly approve of it herself and had done her best to fight against it, albeit with mixed success. But leaving aside all selfish considerations, there still remained one thing above all which meant she would never be induced to speak, and that was the fact that her sense of honour would not allow her to break a promise and give Valencourt away. He had told her that he was going to try and give up his old ways, but whether that were true or not did not matter. They had had an understanding, and that being so she could not betray him, even to save herself.