The Incident at Fives Castle (An Angela Marchmont Mystery #5)

by Clara Benson

  ‘Damn you, Angela,’ whispered Gertie in relief. ‘I almost died of fright!’

  But Angela had placed her finger over her lips and was indicating a spot a few yards ahead. There, with his back to them, was their quarry. He was crouched down in the shelter of some bushes, and was evidently under the impression that his pursuers were somewhere in front of him. Angela and Gertie exchanged glances and crept across to him.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Angela sharply.

  The man started and turned, and would almost certainly have attempted to run off had he not seen the lethal-looking pistol that was being pointed at his head by the taller of his two pursuers.

  ‘Don’t shoot me!’ he cried in terror. ‘Gertie, it’s me!’

  He pulled down the muffler that covered the lower part of his face and Gertie gave an exclamation.

  ‘St. John!’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  SIXTEEN

  St. John Bagshawe sat in a comfortable easy chair in Freddy’s bedroom, dressed in Freddy’s silk dressing-gown and a spare pair of pyjamas that someone had dug out, and took a bite of buttered muffin with a great sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘I say, these are simply marvellous,’ he said, ‘especially when one’s had nothing to eat but liquorice and snow for the past twenty-four hours.’

  He looked up at Gertie, Angela and Freddy, who were all standing and watching him with varying degrees of exasperation and curiosity.

  ‘St. John,’ said Freddy, ‘why are you here?’

  ‘Why, to see Gertie, of course,’ said St. John, quite unabashed. ‘You wouldn’t invite me up here for New Year, Gertie, so I decided to come off my own bat.’

  ‘But why didn’t you simply knock on the door?’ said Gertie. ‘I should hardly have turned you away in the snow. Tempting as it might have been,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘I know that, and that’s what I was counting on, but it all went rather wrong. You see, I didn’t want to look too obvious, so I’d planned to pretend I was on a walking-tour of Scotland. I was going to come here and pretend to get lost in the grounds, then accidentally bump into you and pretend that I hadn’t realized I was so near Fives. Then you would have to ask me to stay—or at least invite me to the dance, and I should accept and everybody would be happy.’

  ‘Says you,’ said Gertie. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘That fierce-looking man of yours with the two-foot-long whiskers and the Scots accent you could cut with a knife, that’s what,’ said St. John. ‘He caught me while I was mooching about on the terrace, and chased me off. At least, I think that’s what he was doing—I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but he pointed his shotgun at me so I took the hint.’

  ‘MacDonald,’ said Gertie. ‘So that was you, then.’

  ‘Yes. Then it started to snow so I went back to the village, where I’d been staying, and tried again the next day. The snow was a lot deeper than I expected, but plenty of people had already gone along that way so it was obviously passable. I got to the castle—’

  He paused to take another bite of muffin and a sip of tea.

  ‘Why did you leave the path?’ said Angela.

  ‘How do you know that?’ he said, looking up in surprise with his mouth full.

  ‘We were following your footprints,’ she replied. ‘We thought you were someone else.’

  ‘By Jove,’ he said, and stared at her for a second, his cup suspended halfway to his lips. ‘Yes, I did leave the path. Unfortunately for me, I spied old Whiskers coming towards me and didn’t want to risk a second encounter, so I jumped over the stream—fell in, as a matter of fact—and struck out across the meadow. Then I got rather lost for a while.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Angela. ‘We tracked you to the old shed. You cut your hand trying to get in.’

  He glanced at the back of his hand, which was grazed, then looked at her in admiration. ‘It’s almost as though you were there,’ he said. ‘Yes, I got soaked when I fell in the stream and I wanted somewhere to wring my trousers out. The bolt was rusted, though, so there was nothing doing. Tell me then, what did I do next?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘We followed you as far as the castle entrance but then lost your trail.’

  ‘Yes, I did get that far,’ he said, ‘but by that time I’d started to realize that my story was going to look a bit thin. I mean, it’s all very well bumping into someone by accident when you’re out in dry weather, but I was hardly likely to be out hiking for the fun of it in three feet of snow, with the castle practically cut off, was I? So I thought the best thing to do would be to ask Freddy for advice.’

  ‘If you had, I’d have told you to go home,’ said Freddy.

  St. John stuck his chin out.

  ‘At any rate, I was freezing cold by then so I slipped in through the front door when nobody was about. I thought I’d find you lounging about somewhere and would be able to attract your attention. There didn’t seem to be anybody around, though, so in the end I slipped into an empty bedroom on the second floor and decided to wait for the dance to begin. I knew it would be a noisy affair and thought I’d be able to gate-crash discreetly.’

  Gertie was eyeing him in exasperation.

  ‘Why didn’t you, then?’ she said.

  ‘I fell asleep,’ he replied. ‘My bed at the inn is dreadfully uncomfortable, you see, and I’d hardly slept a wink the night before, so I expect I was pretty tired. I woke up at about eleven o’clock and thought I’d be in time to throw myself into the last of the festivities, but then I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass and realized that in my present state I was hardly likely to recommend myself, so I—er—stayed where I was,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘After all that!’ said Gertie.

  ‘What happened then?’ said Angela. ‘At what time did you leave the bedroom?’

  ‘It must have been shortly after twelve,’ he said. ‘I wanted to slip out with the rest of the crowd and get back to the inn.’

  ‘Bobby says he saw you,’ said Gertie.

  ‘Is that the little boy? Yes, I got a bit lost, and he told me how to find my way out.’

  ‘But why did you decide to go and sleep in the barn?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ replied St. John. ‘I had intended to return to the inn, but I found that a tree had come down and blocked the path. I was pretty sick, I can tell you. There seemed nothing to do but return to the castle, but by the time I got back the front doors were locked, and so I thought I’d better try and take a different route back to the village. I got as far as the barn and decided to give it up and spend the night there. It’s no fun sleeping in a haystack in the middle of winter, so I had a rotten time of it and was just about to have a second try at getting back when you two started chasing me about and pointing guns at me,’ he said with an injured air.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Angela,’ said Freddy. ‘She’s from America, where every woman is required by law to carry a six-shooter in her garter at all times.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gertie,’ said St. John. ‘I know I’ve made rather a fool of myself, but it was only because I couldn’t get your attention in any other way. I mean, I wrote you all those poems, but you sent them back. I thought women liked poetry and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Poetry? Is that what you call it?’ said Gertie with a sniff. ‘Plain rude, I should say. It seemed to consist mainly of a list of all those parts of the body one generally tends to conceal from public view. And there were one or two verbs that I had to go and look up in the dictionary. Where you learned those words I don’t know, but I’ll bet it wasn’t in church.’

  ‘For shame, St. John,’ said Freddy with a smirk as his friend went pink in the face.

  ‘I shouldn’t have minded so much, but it didn’t even rhyme,’ went on Gertie, whose literary tastes were unsophisticated.

  Angela wanted to return to the matter at hand.

  ‘Did you happen to see anybody apart from Bobby while you we
re wandering around the castle after midnight?’ she asked St. John.

  ‘A couple of people, yes,’ said St. John. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw you going up the stairs, and then shortly afterwards a woman with dark hair came downstairs.’

  ‘That must have been Eleanor Buchanan,’ said Angela. ‘We did pass each other.’

  ‘And there was a middle-aged woman in a dressing-gown, too. She was making notes on some paper and talking to herself as she walked. She was on her way upstairs, and she bumped into a pillar and apologized to it.’

  ‘Miss Fo,’ said Gertie. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Look here,’ he said in sudden puzzlement, ‘why are you asking all these questions? Anyone would think I’d come to steal the silver, the way you’re going on. I came to see Gertie and made a mess of things, and now I suppose I shall have to slink off back to the inn without even an invitation to dinner.’

  He looked up hopefully, but Gertie was not inclined to indulge him.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ she said abruptly.

  ‘A gun?’ said St. John. ‘Of course I haven’t got a gun. I wanted to impress you, not shoot you.’

  ‘He might have buried it in the snow,’ said Freddy. ‘That’s what they’ll say.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ said St. John. ‘That’s what who will say? I don’t have a gun, I tell you.’

  ‘Ought we to tell him?’ said Gertie.

  ‘I think it’s only fair to let a man know when he’s in danger of being hanged,’ said Freddy, who was enjoying his friend’s discomfiture immensely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was a murder here last night, Mr. Bagshawe,’ said Angela. ‘Someone was shot dead last night, presumably while you were still here in the castle. I should start thinking carefully about your alibi if I were you, since your presence here at the vital moment looks suspicious, to say the least.’

  St. John gazed around at them all in alarm.

  ‘But who was killed?’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it. Freddy, you believe me, don’t you?’

  Freddy assumed a look of deep and sincere regret.

  ‘It looks bad for you, old chap,’ he said. ‘We’ve all been eliminated from the investigation. That just leaves you. Can you prove where you were at the time of the murder?’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone, Freddy,’ said Gertie. ‘St. John, you’re an ass, but I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this. Unfortunately, they don’t know that, so you’d better start praying that they find the real guilty party, and quickly.’

  ‘Would someone please explain to me what is going on?’ said St. John. ‘Who was killed?’

  Angela gave him a brief explanation of last night’s events and he sat there, open-mouthed.

  ‘Oh, but that’s absurd,’ he said at last. ‘Of course I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, your recent—er—political activities indicate otherwise,’ said Freddy.

  ‘What have my political activities to do with it?’ demanded St. John.

  ‘You’re a Communist, aren’t you?’ said Freddy.

  ‘And proud to be one,’ said St. John, drawing himself up.

  ‘Proud enough to betray your country if the other side came calling?’

  St. John hesitated.

  ‘Well, I don’t say I’d go that far. No, of course I wouldn’t. I’m as patriotic as the next man. But I should like to see Britain become a truly Communist state, and that’s what we’re fighting for—the right for every man to earn a decent wage and live his life in dignity.’

  ‘What about every woman?’ said Angela sweetly.

  ‘Er—’ said St. John. ‘Yes, of course. Women will have a vital part to play, naturally. It will be the job of every woman to support her man in the fight, and all that. But you wouldn’t want them taking all the men’s jobs, now, would you? No,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘women are much better suited to the part of staunch supporter and helpmeet. Your glory is not to be gained on the battlefield, but at home, creating a calm and comfortable haven for the menfolk to return to after a long day fighting the good fight.’

  ‘That sounds awfully dreary,’ said Gertie. ‘I’d much prefer to join in the fighting, if it’s all the same to you. But anyway, this is all beside the point. Don’t you see? Everyone knows you’re a filthy Bolshevist, so you’re the obvious suspect for the murder.’

  There was a pause as St. John digested the truth of this.

  ‘What shall I do, then?’ he said in dismay. ‘You must help me get away from here. I don’t want to be arrested.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Freddy. ‘We’re cut off by the snow.’

  ‘Well, then, you must hide me somewhere until the snow melts and the road is cleared.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Gertie. ‘You shall stay here and face up to things like a man. Besides, you don’t want to miss dinner tonight, do you? The New Year’s feast at Fives is famous. You’ll be telling people about it for years to come.’

  ‘Oh?’ said St. John, perking up a little.

  ‘Yes, and this year’s is going to be an especially good one. There’s to be lobster and truffles and partridge and pheasant and three whole turkeys and mutton cutlets and roast beef and lots and lots of champagne,’ said Gertie all in one breath. ‘And then if you’ve still got room we’ve got jellies and meringues and ices and strawberry creams.’

  St. John gave a little moan of longing. The muffins had done little to fill the hole in his stomach.

  ‘It does sound rather good,’ he said. ‘The food at the inn is pretty rotten. May I really stay?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gertie. ‘I shall break the news to Father, and Freddy shall lend you a suit.’

  Freddy wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Not before he’s cleaned himself up,’ he said. ‘I’m not letting you anywhere near my best togs while you’re still caked in three inches of muck.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said St. John, who had quite recovered and was looking forward to the prospect of a lavish dinner in company with Gertie. ‘I shall take a hot bath forthwith.’

  ‘A bath?’ said Freddy. ‘Communists don’t do anything as wasteful as taking baths, surely? Oughtn’t you to stand on your principles and make do with a wipe-down with a cold sponge instead?’

  ‘Under a Communist government everyone will be able to take a hot bath whenever they like,’ said St. John. ‘That’s the whole point. You see—’

  ‘Oh, do can it, old chap,’ said Freddy. ‘Hose yourself down in whatever way you please, then come downstairs and we’ll throw you to the lions. As Angela says, you might want to work on your alibi in the meantime.’

  St. John shut his mouth with a snap, and the others took the opportunity to leave the room.

  SEVENTEEN

  Lord Strathmerrick lowered himself into his chair with a sigh and gazed at Henry Jameson across the desk. There was still an hour until the feast began and the two men were sitting in the study, sampling a bottle of excellent sherry. The Earl had intended to offer Henry some of his best whisky, but on investigating the drinks cabinet had discovered that there seemed to be none left, although he was sure there had been almost a full bottle last night. He would have to speak to the butler about it. At present, however, he had more pressing concerns on his mind. He coughed.

  ‘So, then,’ he began. ‘We’re in rather a hole, it seems.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry.

  ‘Not only have we lost poor old Klausen, we have also lost his copy of the plans and those of the Foreign Secretary. I tried to persuade Buchanan to give them to me for safe-keeping two days ago, but he wouldn’t have it—can’t resist trying to take all the glory to himself, you know. He’s an excellent man—brilliant, in fact—but he has his faults, just like the rest of us. And he does like to play the showman. Well, it was a mistake on his part this time. I must say he’s apologized handsomely for it, but that doesn’t alter the fact that things are looking desperate for us at prese
nt. Klausen is dead, and if we can’t find those documents, then his life’s work will have died with him.’

  Henry nodded gravely.

  ‘I wasn’t too keen on it before since it’s such a long shot,’ said the Earl, ‘but I suggest we institute a search of the castle. They must be here somewhere—unless they’ve been destroyed, of course. But surely nobody would have done that?’

  ‘Oh, no, I doubt it,’ said Henry. ‘Presumably the whole point of killing Klausen was to get the papers off him and pass them on to a foreign power.’

  ‘Presumably,’ agreed Lord Strathmerrick. ‘You say he had been approached to work for the other side and had refused?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And since they couldn’t get the man himself, I suppose they must have determined to get his research off him instead—even if it meant killing him.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful shame,’ said Lord Strathmerrick gruffly, ‘and we must do something about it. Now, what do you know about this Bagshawe fellow? Rather odd his turning up now, don’t you think?’

  ‘Quite a lot, as it happens,’ said Henry. ‘We’ve had our eye on him—or at least his organization—for some little while now. He is the third son of the Bishop of Tewkesbury, and is rather the black sheep of the family. At Cambridge he threw himself into a number of radical causes, but eventually seemed to settle on Socialism. He was a member of the Labour Party and had intended to stand for Parliament, but he got chucked out of the party after he decided that traditional politics were too tame for him and joined a militant group known as the Young Bolshevists, who amuse themselves by going along to political meetings and causing a disturbance. You may have read about some of their recent activities.’

  ‘I believe I have, yes,’ said the Earl. ‘They set off fireworks and overturn chairs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Henry. ‘Naturally, we have been keeping an eye on events, but until today I should have said that there was no real harm in the group—or in St. John Bagshawe. They are an excitable lot, but they appear to lack any sort of coherent organization. As a matter of fact, we sent an undercover chap along to one of their meetings, and it was rather a tame affair—seemed to consist mainly of squabbling and bad poetry. It looks as though we may have been wrong, though. Perhaps there is more to them than we thought. Perhaps they have been influenced by someone in the group who knows what he is doing.’