by Clara Benson
‘Not according to him,’ said Henry. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘What?’ said Angela.
Henry gave her a brief summary of Claude’s version of events.
‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’
‘I hope not,’ said Henry frankly. ‘If he was, then we are not much further forward than we were before, since presumably there is another spy on the loose somewhere—one who knew about the existence of the papers and was in a position to instruct Burford to steal them. But I should hate to think that was the case.’
‘But what had Claude to gain by returning only one set of the papers once he was caught?’
‘None, as far as I can see,’ said Henry.
‘Then perhaps he is telling the truth. Perhaps someone else killed Professor Klausen and stole the documents from his dead body.’
‘I hope not,’ said Henry again. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He went off, looking grim.
At dinner everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement, eager to talk about the events of the day but prevented by good manners from doing so—since, when all was said and done, it would have been the height of bad taste to draw attention to the fact that Lady Priscilla’s fiancé had turned out to be such a bad lot. St. John, it was true, could not resist whispering triumphantly to Angela about his presumed exoneration, but everybody else did their best to keep the conversation to unobjectionable subjects.
‘I gather the men managed to clear a path through to the village this afternoon,’ said Aubrey Nash.
‘Yes, thank goodness,’ said Lady Strathmerrick, ‘although I’m afraid it will take some time until the drive can be cleared sufficiently to allow motor-cars to pass through.’
‘Then we shall have to impose on your generous hospitality a little longer, Lady Strathmerrick,’ said Selma with her most charming smile. ‘I never thought I could enjoy being trapped in a place so much.’
‘How very kind of you to say so,’ said the Countess.
‘You’ll be able to return to the inn now, at any rate,’ said Angela to St. John.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m going tomorrow morning, but I shall be back in the afternoon as I have some things to do for the ladies. Do you have any errands you’d like me to run? I’ve promised to post Miss Foster’s latest chapter to her writers’ circle, and—’ (in a lower tone) ‘—Gertie wants me to get her some cigarettes—although you’d better not tell her Governor about that, as she’s not supposed to smoke.’
‘No, I don’t think I need anything, thank you,’ replied Angela. ‘As a matter of fact, I may take a little walk into the village myself, before it starts snowing and we get cut off again.’
‘Father says the weather is improving now,’ said Clemmie. ‘I dare say the drive will be clear in no time and we can all get back to London.’
They all talked of the snow with politeness and determination until everything had been said that could be said on the subject and a general silence fell. It was Gertie who eventually broke the embargo as the apple tart was being served.
‘I say,’ she said suddenly, ‘has anybody taken Claude up something to eat?’
Nobody had, it appeared.
‘I shall send up a maid with a tray,’ said Lady Strathmerrick.
‘Better not,’ said Sandy Buchanan. ‘We don’t want him to overpower her and escape.’
‘Bradley and I will take him something shortly,’ said Henry. ‘He won’t get the better of us.’
He then found some other observation to make about the weather that had not already been made, and they all pursued the subject energetically until dinner had ended.
The ladies soon retired to the drawing-room to whisper in corners, while the men remained behind to mutter gruffly at each other. Angela was gazing out of the window, idly wondering whether the part she had played in bringing Claude to justice meant that she was now persona non grata in the view of her hostess, when she noticed that the fastening of her necklace had worked loose and the article in question was about to fall to the floor. Closer examination revealed that the catch had broken. Since the dress she was wearing required a neck ornament—according to Marthe, at least—Angela left the drawing-room and went up to her room to find a suitable replacement. As she reached the top of the stairs, however, she heard voices she recognized coming from the next landing. Something about their tone arrested her attention, and she moved to the bottom of the second flight and looked upwards. The first thing that caught her eye was a wide-open door and the sight of Gabe Bradley standing in the doorway with one hand to his forehead, in an attitude of shock. Without thinking, she hurried up the stairs to join him. He heard her coming and turned.
‘Don’t,’ he said, but it was no use. Angela had already seen what lay in the room beyond. It was a small bed-chamber, simply furnished with a bed, a little table and a chest of drawers. On the chest was a tray of food. Henry Jameson was bending over the bed, on which lay a man who seemed to be asleep. It was Claude Burford.
Angela stared. She knew immediately what had happened. Henry straightened up as he saw her, and before he even opened his mouth she knew what his next words would be.
‘He’s dead,’ he said.
THIRTY
‘Shot,’ said Angela. It was hardly a question.
Henry nodded. He looked sick.
‘Through the heart, just like Klausen,’ he said.
Angela came further into the room and gazed down at the dead body of Claude Burford. His face was swollen and bruised from the fight with Freddy, but aside from that he might have been sleeping. Only a tiny round hole in the centre of his breast indicated that anything was amiss.
‘What do we do now?’ said Gabe, white in the face. ‘Lord Strathmerrick and Mr. Buchanan will need to know.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘Go and tell them, will you, Bradley? Tell them to meet me in the study as a matter of urgency. I shall lock the door then join you.’
Gabe needed no further instruction. He ran off. Henry was about to follow him, but Angela put her hand on his arm.
‘Have you still got my gun?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ replied Henry. ‘I looked to make sure when I discovered that the other one had been taken. It’s still there, all right.’
‘Then I suggest you get it. It looks as though you’re going to need it.’
‘I could kick myself,’ he said, as they hurried downstairs. ‘If only I hadn’t been in such a rush this afternoon I should have put the second gun in a much safer place. I ought to have known that something was up when it went missing, but I never dreamed that Burford would be the target. Wait here.’
He went into his room and emerged a few moments later with Angela’s revolver.
‘You’d better keep it for now,’ she said, and he slipped it into his pocket.
They arrived outside the dining-hall to find Lord Strathmerrick, Sandy Buchanan and Aubrey Nash emerging behind Gabe with shocked looks on their faces.
‘Is it true?’ demanded Buchanan of Henry. ‘How did it happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘But there’s no time to be lost. We must decide what to do next.’
‘Now we shall never find the documents,’ moaned Lord Strathmerrick, who was not quite wringing his hands but looked as though he would like to.
The men all disappeared in the direction of the study, leaving Angela standing alone once more in the passage.
‘How they do talk, these politicians,’ she said to herself. ‘When disaster strikes, they like nothing better than to sit down and chat about it for an hour or two.’
For her own part, she could not decide what to do, and in the absence of any other ideas returned to the drawing-room. There she found the ladies in glum mood, which was only slightly enlivened by an animated debate currently going on between St. John and Miss Foster about the relative merits of Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott. Angela sat down in an easy chair, her mind elsewhere, and ga
zed absently at Freddy who, with bandaged ear, was still enjoying the ministrations of Selma Nash. After a few minutes he glanced her way and laughed as well as he could.
‘Why, Mrs. M, what on earth are you gaping at?’ he said. ‘If you’re not careful someone will toss a penny into your mouth and make a wish.’
Angela, coming to, realized she had indeed been sitting with her mouth open, and shut it with a snap. She stood up and glanced significantly towards the door, then went out. Freddy narrowed his eyes, waited a few moments and followed her.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Claude is dead,’ she replied.
‘Good God,’ he said, staring. ‘Do you mean he killed himself?’
‘No. It looks like murder.’
Now he was even more astonished.
‘But who did it?’ he said. Angela said nothing, and he went on, ‘Do you mean to say there are two murderers on the loose at Fives?’
‘No,’ said Angela, ‘I don’t think there are. Claude denied killing Klausen, you know, and it looks as though he may have been telling the truth.’
‘I say,’ said Freddy, and paused to digest this new idea. ‘But why was he killed?’
‘To keep him quiet, I assume,’ said Angela. ‘He was certainly involved in the theft of the papers, but once he was caught he became a dangerous burden, so he was put out of the way to prevent him from betraying his accomplice.’
‘This gets stranger and stranger,’ said Freddy. ‘I feel as though I’m in the middle of the most extraordinary dream. I rather think I’d like to wake up now, though.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Angela, ‘but perhaps we can put an end to it this evening.’
‘You don’t mean to say you know who did it?’ said Freddy, impressed.
‘Not exactly,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but I have a hunch about the papers. If they are where I think they are, then we have our murderer. If I’m wrong, then there’s no harm done.’
‘If you are right, you will naturally claim that you knew all along.’
‘Naturally,’ she said.
‘Very well, what is the next step?’ said Freddy.
‘First of all, I’m going to talk to Henry, and then I shall need your help,’ said Angela.
‘How very kind of you to let me in on the thing,’ said Freddy. ‘What do you want me to do? Please don’t ask me to hit anybody. I’m not up to fighting again.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Angela. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. I just need you to charm a woman. You ought to find that easy enough.’
She explained what she wanted in a few words and he raised his eyebrows but listened carefully.
‘I say,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I’d like to take a closer look. Now then, do you think you can do it?’
Freddy drew himself up.
‘I should say so,’ he said. ‘In the service of my country and the delightful Mrs. M. I am prepared to do anything.’
‘Excellent. I shall remind you of that promise one day, but this will do for the present. Now, I am going to fetch Mr. Jameson. I shall be back in a minute. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to begin.’
He nodded and returned to the drawing-room, and Angela hurried along to the study and knocked on the door. To her dismay, she found only Gabe and Aubrey there.
‘Where is Mr. Jameson?’ she said.
‘He went upstairs with Buchanan and Lord Strathmerrick, as they wanted to see Burford’s body,’ said Aubrey.
‘Dear me, and I did need him rather urgently,’ she said.
‘I can fetch him if you like,’ said Gabe, standing up.
‘Oh, would you? I’d be most grateful,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in the drawing-room—and please tell him to bring the gun. I think he might need it.’
She left Gabe and Aubrey glancing at each other in surprise, and ran back to the drawing-room. She paused a moment to get her breath back then slipped through the door quietly. Everything was much as it had been before, except that now Freddy was sitting on a sofa next to Miss Foster with an open book in his hand.
‘—but I always thought Wordsworth was a terribly dull chap,’ he was saying. ‘All that whimpering about daffodils. If you want real feeling, then Coleridge is your man.’ He struck an attitude and declaimed, ‘“The night is chill; the forest bare; is it the wind that moaneth bleak?” Marvellous stuff. It gives me quite a shiver whenever I read it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Foster, clasping her hands together. ‘I quite agree with you, Mr. Pilkington-Soames. I believe there is nothing quite like poetry for striking a thrill to the very heart, but the subject-matter is of the first importance.’
‘I read one once in which the chap spent forty-seven verses describing the spots on the back of a ladybird,’ said Freddy. ‘If anyone ought to have been forced to wear an albatross around his neck, it was that poet.’
Miss Foster tittered, and the two of them bent their heads over the book while Freddy flicked through in search of something purple enough to satisfy the lady’s tastes.
In the meantime, Angela had spotted what she was looking for. Miss Foster’s notebook was lying on a small table just to one side of the sofa, but not quite out of Miss Foster’s eye-line. Nobody else was taking any notice. Angela moved quietly behind the sofa. Freddy, who had not looked up but was perfectly aware of her presence, drew the poetry book towards him slightly and indicated a particular verse, so that Miss Foster was forced to turn further away from Angela in order to see it. Angela took her opportunity and quietly picked up the notebook.
‘I say, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said a loud voice just then, making her jump. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in literature too.’ It was St. John, who had spotted what she was doing. He came over, took the notebook out of her hands and began flicking through it. ‘Look, Miss Foster, Mrs. Marchmont wants to read your latest chapter. I said you ought to let people have a look at it. No use in hiding one’s light under a bushel and all that, what?’
Angela had frozen for a second, but now she glanced over and saw Freddy and Miss Foster both staring at the notebook in horror. Miss Foster quickly recovered herself and gave a little laugh.
‘Oh, Mr. Bagshawe,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you before how protective I am of my notebook. Why, I hate to say it, but it makes me feel quite anxious to see the fruits of my imagination in anyone else’s hands. May I have it, please? I should be only too glad to read one or two extracts to you if you like.’ She rose and held out her hand to take the book.
‘Nonsense,’ said St. John jovially. ‘If you’re ever going to succeed as a writer then you must be prepared to let others read your stuff. Don’t worry—we’re all friends here, and even if it’s a little rough around the edges, I’m sure everybody will be happy to suggest areas in which you might improve.’
‘I really must insist—’ began Miss Foster, and tried to take the notebook out of his hands, but St. John held it out of her way.
‘Now, now,’ he said in playful admonishment. ‘There’s no need to be shy about it—’ he stopped in surprise as Miss Foster snatched at the notebook and he lost his balance. For a few seconds they fought over it comically, then there was a tearing sound and it fell to the floor, scattering loose leaves everywhere.
There was a brief silence, then Miss Foster made a dart at the floor and began picking up the papers.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said St. John. ‘Do let me help you.’
‘There’s no need—’ began Miss Foster, but St. John had already picked up several of the loose leaves and was frowning at them.
‘I say, Miss Foster, you do write on jolly thick paper,’ he said. ‘Look, it seems to be made of two sheets pasted together. Yes, it is—look, you can see where the glue is coming away here.’
Everyone in the room was now watching the little scene with interest.
‘St. John,’ said Freddy in a warning tone.
Miss Foster glan
ced around and saw the expressions on the faces of Angela and Freddy, then turned back to St. John.
‘Give the papers to me,’ she said, and suddenly the soft, affected voice of Letty Foster had gone, to be replaced by something altogether colder and harder.
‘What?’ said St. John absently, still absorbed in pulling the glued pages apart. ‘Why, they’re all the same—and look, what’s this? Somebody’s put some other bits of paper between the layers. Dashed odd way of going about things, what?’
There was a click, and everyone in the room gasped at the same time.
‘Give me the papers,’ said Miss Foster, more loudly this time. St. John looked up and blinked as he saw the gun in her hand, pointing directly at his chest.
‘Is that a gun?’ he said.
‘What on earth are you doing, Letty?’ said Lady Strathmerrick in astonishment.
‘Give her the documents, you ass,’ said Freddy to St. John.
St. John, not the quickest of thinkers, finally seemed to realize that something was amiss, and handed the scraps of paper to Miss Foster. She seized them and hurried out of the room, just as Henry Jameson and Sandy Buchanan entered through a different door to a chorus of astounded voices. Sandy Buchanan held up his hands until everybody subsided.
‘What’s all this?’ he said.
‘Miss Foster has taken the papers,’ said Angela to Henry. He understood immediately and ran towards the door through which Miss Foster had just left. ‘Be careful!’ Angela called after him as he went out. ‘She has a gun.’
‘I don’t know where she thinks she’s going in that evening-frock,’ said Gertie. ‘She’ll have to stay indoors or she’ll freeze to death outside.’
Sandy Buchanan started to say something, but he was immediately interrupted by the sound of a gunshot from somewhere nearby inside the castle. It was followed quickly by another, then silence. All the guests gazed at one another, wide-eyed.
‘Do you suppose she’s shot him?’ said Gertie. ‘Perhaps someone ought to go and find out. Freddy, be a sport, will you?’