by Clara Benson
THE INCIDENT AT FIVES CASTLE
Clara Benson
Copyright
© 2014 Clara Benson
All rights reserved
The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
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ISBN: 978-1-291-91885-4
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The Incident at Fives Castle
It is Hogmanay, and Angela Marchmont is at Fives Castle, the Scottish seat of the Earl of Strathmerrick, to see in the start of 1928. But when she finds out that the Foreign Secretary, the American Ambassador and the Head of British Intelligence are also among the guests, Angela begins to suspect that something momentous is afoot. Before long, they are all snowed in and a body is discovered, and Angela soon finds suspicion directed against herself...
ONE
‘So, as you can see, it’s rather a delicate matter,’ said Alexander Buchanan, the Foreign Secretary.
Henry Jameson, self-effacing and owlish in his round spectacles, gave a cough that was meant to denote agreement.
‘If this Klausen chap really has come up with the goods then this could be the most enormous boost for our side,’ went on Buchanan. ‘I don’t need to tell you that. Your agents have been keeping an eye on what’s been happening over there for long enough, and what they’ve learned doesn’t exactly fill me with hope.’
‘No,’ agreed Jameson, ‘although we seem to be safe for now. Until their powers that be can get hold of that final link in the chain, it’s all so much hot air, so to speak. I heard from our top man in the region just last week: he is quite certain that the information we have is correct.’
‘You mean that the latest tests have proved unsuccessful?’ said Buchanan. He nodded. ‘It’s only a matter of time, though. I know of at least three other countries who are working on the same thing. Of course, they’re far behind us at present, but they’ll catch up soon enough. There are plenty of brainy fellows in the world, and one of them is bound to hit upon the solution sooner or later.’
‘Well, Klausen seems to think he’s done that already,’ said Jameson.
‘Then why the devil couldn’t he tell us about it straight out, instead of engaging in all this hole-and-corner stuff? It beats me.’
‘Ah, but he’s always been very protective of his work. There’s a lot of professional jealousy among these scientists, you know. I gather he’s terrified that someone will steal his ideas and take the credit for them.’
‘But surely in an instance such as this, it’s far more important for the cleverest men to work together?’ said Buchanan. ‘Why, it’s for the good of the nation, if not the world! We don’t want to go through another war, now, do we?’
‘Of course not, but there’s no reason at present to suppose we will,’ said Jameson. ‘And, of course, the ten-year rule is still in place.’
‘Hang the ten-year rule!’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘That’s all about saving money, as you well know. We can’t afford to keep the Armed Forces in the luxury to which they’d become accustomed. But with a weapon like this—why, don’t you see? It would be the ultimate threat. The other side wouldn’t dare start another war if they knew we had something of that kind. Think of the money that could be saved if we never had to re-arm at all.’
Henry Jameson glanced at the great man. Sandy Buchanan was a brilliant thinker and politician who had risen rapidly to his current position of eminence. It was thought likely that he would one day become Prime Minister. His greatest quality was his ability to look ahead and see all possible outcomes of an event, which gave him a great advantage in negotiations with foreign powers. It was no coincidence that none of his friends would play chess with him. If Buchanan, in the middle of peace-time, was already showing agitation about a possible future war, then it was wise to listen to what he said.
‘But the other side will get it sooner or later,’ said Jameson. ‘As you said, it’s only a matter of time.’
‘That’s true, of course,’ replied Buchanan, ‘but if both sides have it the result is the same: stalemate—always assuming we get there first. The real problem is if they get there before we do. We can be trusted to behave responsibly, naturally, but if they get it before us—well, who’s to say they won’t decide to test it out on us just for the fun of the thing?’
‘Oh, quite, quite,’ said Jameson.
‘So, then, it’s vital that we hear what Klausen has to say for himself—and vital that it’s kept secret. We don’t want anyone getting wind of it. I think you know whom I’m referring to, Jameson.’
‘Naturally,’ said Henry Jameson, who knew the politician was not talking about foreign powers now.
Buchanan went on:
‘We’ve already had enough trouble from the Opposition over that spying affair. Questions in the House, and worse!’
‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘The public don’t like the thought of spies in our midst.’
‘And certainly not in the Cabinet Secretariat,’ agreed Buchanan. ‘We never did establish to our satisfaction whether Golovin was acting alone, although he swore he was the only one.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jameson, who had his own ideas on that subject.
‘Ogilvy’s reputation never recovered, of course, and he had to resign, and we only just won the by-election by the skin of our teeth. Burford is a good man, although of course he’s young yet and can’t replace someone of Ogilvy’s experience. If, after all that, the Opposition were to find out that we want to develop a weapon of this kind when there are spies supposedly all around us—and, moreover, when we are meant to be cutting expenditure on arms, well—’ he paused expressively.
‘I understand,’ said Jameson. ‘Don’t worry—I will make certain the matter remains confidential.’
‘It ought to be easy enough,’ said Buchanan. ‘Strathmerrick is sound, absolutely sound, and I have been to Fives at this time of year before, so nobody will suspect anything untoward. A New Year’s house party in a castle in a remote part of Scotland—why, what could be more innocent?’
‘Quite,’ said Jameson. He selected a sheet of paper from the sheaf he held in his hand and passed it to the Foreign Secretary. ‘So then,’ he said, ‘here is a list of the people who will be present at Fives Castle besides us and the American Ambassador.’
Buchanan glanced over the list and rubbed his chin in thought.
‘Mostly family, I see,’ he said. ‘The Earl and Countess, of course, and their daughters. Those girls are a handful—especially Gertie—but they’re innocent enough. Claude Burford, of course. A clever young man, that. He knows what he’s about. He’s engaged to the eldest girl. Very suitable. The Ambassador and his wife. Gabriel Bradley—now, who’s that? Oh, of course, the Ambassador’s secretary. I believe I’ve met him before. Miss Letitia Foster—she’s a governess and sort of companion. Slightly dotty old thing—been with the family for years. Klausen, when he turns up. Ah.’ He paused. ‘Who’s this? Frederick Pilkington-Soames. I don’t think I know him.’
Jameson coughed apologetically.
‘I’m afraid he’s a reporter,’ he said. ‘For the Clarion, no less.’
‘A reporter!’ exclaimed the Foreign Secretary in dismay. ‘That’s the last thing we need. Why the devil was he invited?’
‘I believe he is a friend of Lady Gertrude’s,’ said Jameson. ‘I understand the young ladies are accustomed to inviting their friends to stay more or less whenever they like, so it would have looked rather suspicious to forbid him from coming.’
‘Surely there must be something we can do to keep him away? Can’t we get him sent to cover an important story here in London? Who’s his editor?’
‘I shouldn’t recommend that,’ said Jameson. ‘They’re a tenacious lot at the Clarion. If they get the slightest hint that we don’t want them there they’ll be all over us like a plague of rats. No, best pretend we’ve no objection to his presence. We shall just have to be very careful to give the impression that there’s nothing doing. After all, even politicians take time off now and again.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Buchanan doubtfully. He moved on to the next name on the list.
‘Mrs. Angela Marchmont,’ he read. ‘And who might she be? I seem to recognize the name.’
‘She’s another friend of Lady Gertrude’s, I understand,’ said Jameson, ‘but we used to know her very well here, too.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Buchanan, with a keen glance.
‘Yes. As a matter of fact, she rather distinguished herself during the war. She was the secretary of Bernstein, the American financier, for several years, and happened to be in Belgium when the war started. Under the guise of an American neutral, she helped a number of soldiers and prisoners to escape into Holland. She was nearly captured several times—was even arrested and questioned once—but they never got anything out of her. We wanted to put her forward for a bravery medal, but she was horrified at the very idea, and said she’d done no more than anyone else would have done in her position.’
‘An American?’ said Buchanan.
‘Oh no, she’s English through and through,’ Jameson assured him. ‘She is the younger sister of Sir Humphrey Cardew.’
‘Cardew?’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘He’s in the Ministry of Labour, isn’t he? I know him, all right. Pompous ass. So she’s his sister, is she? I suppose if she’s anything like him she must be a stiff-backed tartar—all creaking whalebone, moth-balls and disapproving sermons, eh?’
Jameson laughed at the idea.
‘Quite the contrary,’ he said. ‘At least, she wasn’t anything like that when I last saw her ten years ago. As a matter of fact she was rather delightful. She went back to America after the war and disappeared for a while, but she returned to England a year or two ago and has been amusing herself ever since by helping my brother solve murders.’
‘Oh, that Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Buchanan. ‘Yes, I’ve read about her. Isn’t she something of an adventuress? Can she be trusted, do you think? What about Mr. Marchmont? Where is he?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jameson. ‘I know nothing about him.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Foreign Secretary doubtfully. ‘I’m not so sure about this as I was. Here we are, trying our best to organize a discreet little meeting in a remote place, with no chance of anyone finding out about it, and now I find that we are to spend three or four days in the company of a reporter and an amateur detective—the very people who are most likely to stick their noses in!’
‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,’ said Henry Jameson. ‘We shall just have to be as circumspect as possible. If it’s any comfort, I doubt anyone will be interested in what we are getting up to—they’ll be far too concerned with sleeping off all the Hogmanay food and drink.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Buchanan. ‘I should hate anything to go wrong.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t,’ said Jameson.
TWO
The Countess of Strathmerrick regarded herself mournfully in the glass on the wall and assessed the lines on her face. She was sure that several more had appeared since yesterday. A still-fine woman, Lady Strathmerrick was nonetheless highly conscious that she was no longer young, and she was more disturbed by this than she cared to admit. Naturally, with three grown-up daughters and two young sons, one should by now have given up caring about one’s appearance, but Lady Strathmerrick felt obliquely that it was her duty to maintain as far as possible the clear-skinned prettiness and serene, smiling demeanour which had first brought her to the attention of the public during her first wildly successful season almost thirty years ago, and which had captured the hearts of several eligible suitors at the time. With such children, however, this was impossible. Each day brought new horrors and more grey hairs.
Priss, of course, could hardly be called a horror. The eldest daughter, she had inherited her mother’s looks and more, and was nothing less than a beauty. But that, in itself, was a problem. Lady Strathmerrick was loath to admit it, but it caused her pain to be seen in company with the luscious, rosy-cheeked Priss, to be compared with her and to be reminded of what she herself had lost. Clemmie, her youngest daughter, was still in the throes of the sullen, secretive stage, spending hours at a time shut in her room, doing who knew what—worshipping the Devil, perhaps? Or—worse—planning a career on the stage? Gus and Bobby, meanwhile, at ten and eight respectively, seemed to break a bone or sprain an ankle at least once a week. That was normal for small boys, she supposed.
But none of them caused Lady Strathmerrick quite so much worry and consternation as her second daughter. Gertie, she was sure, was responsible for at least nine-tenths of the lines upon her face and for the grey hairs that sprang unbidden from her head in increasing quantities. It was Gertie who, as a girl of seven, had climbed onto the roof of Fives Castle with a pair of home-made wings constructed from broom-handles and bed-sheets and declared her intention to become the first woman to fly. She was caught just in time, but a sound beating failed to deter her. Aged fourteen, she had taken her mother’s passport and, dressed in her mother’s best fur stole and lipstick borrowed from Priss, had set off alone to visit her cousins in Paris—just to see if she could do it, she said. If there was a society party or smart dinner at which it was reported that the guests danced frenziedly on the table, or an attempt at Chinese plate-spinning was made, or some unfortunate young man just down from Cambridge was ejected from a window bereft of his trousers, it was certain that Gertie was there. Only two months ago she had been arrested and brought before the magistrates after an affray at a night-club which had apparently involved an assault with a cold sausage (the Countess had never quite managed to discover exactly what had happened in that instance), and now she wanted to invite two friends of whom Lady Strathmerrick knew nothing to Fives Castle for the New Year celebrations.
‘But must they come, darling?’ she said to Gertie’s reflection in the glass, although she already knew it to be a lost cause. ‘Your father has invited his dullest friends from work to be there, and they will be poring over a lot of dry papers and sitting in conference half the time. It won’t exactly be entertaining.’
‘But that’s exactly why I invited them,’ said Gertie. ‘Fives is all right for children, I suppose—I mean, it was all jolly good fun when I was small—but it’s as tedious as anything these days when there’s just us there. Priss is simply awful company now she’s engaged to that silly ass Claude—’
‘Don’t call him that, dear,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘He’s a fine, upstanding young man.’
‘He’s still a silly ass,’ said Gertie. ‘And I can’t get a word out of Clemmie any more, not now she’s decided she wants to go to university and spends all her time with her nose in a book.’
‘Is that what she’s been doing?’ said Lady Strathmerrick in some relief, although going to university was little better than going on the stage, according to her view of the world.
‘Yes, didn’t she tell you? She wants to be a physicist like Madame Curie.�
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‘Oh,’ said Lady Strathmerrick vaguely. ‘I suppose that’s not too bad.’ In her mind a physicist and a physician were the same thing, and a woman physician was, of course, a nurse. Girls often wanted to be nurses. Clemmie would throw herself into her new enthusiasm for a few months, and then would no doubt move on to other interests.
‘It’s a bore, and so is she,’ said Gertie. ‘I want someone to play with.’
‘But who are these friends?’ said her mother. ‘They’re not part of that horrid night-club set of yours, are they? So loud. And they break things.’
‘Oh, no, they’re not like that at all,’ Gertie assured her. ‘Freddy is an awfully talented journalist and Angela—well, Angela is a darling. You’ll adore her, I promise.’
Just then, a pale-faced woman of indeterminate age drifted absently into the room. She was untidily dressed, and was carrying a sheaf of papers and a pen. Another pen was tucked behind her ear. She wandered over to the window, seemingly unaware of the other two occupants of the room, then stopped short and scribbled a note. This was Miss Foster, formerly the family governess and now a companion to Lady Strathmerrick.
‘Hallo, Miss Fo,’ said Gertie. ‘How’s the book going?’
The woman paused in her writing and glanced up.
‘Hallo, Lady Gertrude,’ she said. ‘My book is going rather well at present, thank you, although I am having a little trouble with a scene in which the illegitimate son of the King of Prussia disguises himself as a woman in order to obtain a secret audience with the Infanta Francisca of Spain.’
‘Letty, do you know anything about these two friends of Gertie’s?’ said Lady Strathmerrick, who was uninterested in the sartorial plight of the King of Prussia’s son.
‘Which two friends?’ said Miss Foster.