by Clara Benson
‘Perhaps it will be wisest to draw a veil over what we know to the disadvantage of Claude Burford,’ went on Henry. ‘After all, the man has been duly punished for his sins and it won’t do any good now to expose them to the nation.’
There was some shuffling of feet at this, especially from Lord Strathmerrick, who was still very angry at Claude’s betrayal, but eventually he nodded reluctantly.
‘Well, then, that seems to settle the matter,’ said Sandy Buchanan briskly. He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘It is very late,’ he said, ‘and I should like to get some sleep, since it looks as though we are going to be walking on egg-shells for the next few weeks and I should like to have a clear mind for it.’
There was no arguing with this, and they all filed out of the room.
‘Shall you get away with it, do you think?’ said Angela to Henry as they walked together along the corridor.
‘I hope so,’ said Henry. ‘I suppose you think it’s not quite the thing?’
‘Not quite, no,’ she replied. ‘Don’t worry—I shan’t say a word, and I perfectly understand why you need to do it, but—’ she paused.
‘But what?’
‘You’ll think me odd, I dare say, but a small part of me thinks it rather a pity that such a cunning and clever woman should go down in history with a label of insanity attached to her name, when she was quite evidently nothing of the sort.’
‘Unfortunately, a job such as mine requires me on occasion to—rewrite the truth, let us say,’ he replied. ‘I don’t say I like it either, but I do what I must in the service of my country.’
‘And nobody could ask more of you,’ said Angela. She stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been a long night,’ she said, ‘and I am very tired, so I shall bid you goodnight.’
‘I think I shall stay up for a while and read through Miss Foster’s correspondence,’ said Henry. ‘I should like to be prepared when the police arrive.’
‘Well, good luck, and goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ he said, ‘and thank you.’
She shook her head, smiling, and went upstairs to bed.
THIRTY-TWO
The next day the news was received that the telephone lines had been repaired, and Fives Castle was once more able to communicate with the outside world. Furthermore, by lunchtime the long drive had finally been cleared, and the guests were informed that they might leave whenever they wished. The sense of relief at this development was almost palpable, although everybody was far too well-mannered to express their happiness in the form of anything other than a polite noise. The past four days had been trying ones for almost everyone—especially the Strathmerrick family, who had been faced with the unfortunate revelation that two of their peripheral members were dangerous criminals, and who now likely had several weeks of impertinent pestering by the press to look forward to (although Freddy had promised not to abuse his favoured position and was on his best behaviour until such time as permission was granted for him to unleash his pen).
Marthe was glad to be going, and was almost cheerful as she packed Angela’s things, while William was overjoyed to be reunited with the Bentley, and was preparing for the long journey ahead by digging about under the bonnet, checking each part with loving care. Angela was sitting by the window in her bedroom, paying some much-needed attention to her finger-nails, when there was a knock at the door and Gertie came in.
‘You’re going, then,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘We set off tomorrow morning—always assuming it doesn’t snow again tonight.’
Gertie shuddered.
‘It had better not,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough of this place and I’m dying to get back to London.’
‘I thought you were keen on a bit of excitement,’ said Angela.
‘Of course I am,’ said Gertie, ‘but I think three dead bodies in one weekend are quite enough for anyone, don’t you?’
Angela stood up and joined Gertie at the window. A thaw had begun to set in—whether temporary or not nobody could say—and water dripped gently onto the window panes from above. In the distance Lord Strathmerrick could be seen directing the delicate operation to remove the mortal remains of Professor Klausen, Claude Burford and Miss Foster from the castle. Gertie grimaced as a little procession of men came into view, bearing three makeshift stretchers on which lay three covered figures. They were loaded as respectfully as possible into the grocer’s motor-van, which had been pressed into service as the only suitable conveyance available, and then the doors were shut on them for the last time. The Earl stood for a while, evidently giving instructions to the driver, who nodded, and then the vehicle moved off slowly—which had less to do with respect for the dead than with the fear of skidding off the road.
‘Have the police arrived yet?’ said Angela.
‘Yes,’ said Gertie. ‘Mr. Jameson button-holed them as soon as they got here and herded them into the study before they could get any ideas about investigating. I’ve no doubt he’s waving Scotland Yard at them and telling them in no uncertain terms that they’re to keep their noses out of it for reasons of national security if they don’t want to lose their jobs.’
‘I should like to see that,’ said Angela. ‘Mr. Jameson is always so mild-mannered that one would never suppose him to have the strength of character to do what he does, and yet he is one of the most competent men I have ever met. I can only suppose he has a hidden firmness of purpose that he displays only on special occasions.’
‘I shouldn’t like to cross him, that’s for sure,’ said Gertie. ‘Give me a cigarette, will you?’
‘I see you have managed to shake off St. John,’ said Angela, handing Gertie her cigarette-case. ‘Where is he? Hiding in his room for fear of arrest?’
Gertie let out a short laugh.
‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘Why, the man is formed entirely of brass. He’s strolling about the place as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Nonetheless, the message does seem finally to have penetrated into his thick skull. I told him yesterday to go and bother someone else, and he took me at my word. When I last saw him he was mooning about after Priss. He’ll get no change out of her either, though—she’s already got her hooks into Gabe.’
‘And so you are left without suitors,’ said Angela mockingly.
‘Yes,’ said Gertie. ‘I remain in splendid solitariness, and can indulge my unrequited crush on Sandy Buchanan in peace. Or perhaps I’ll marry Freddy, just to annoy Father.’
‘Please give me plenty of notice if you do,’ said Angela, ‘and I shall take good care to move to a remote island in order to avoid the fireworks.’
They both laughed merrily.
A little while later Angela came downstairs to find Aubrey and Selma Nash in the entrance hall, preparing to depart, as they were going to visit friends in Edinburgh for a few days. There was much clasping of hands and kissing as they took leave of her, and then Aubrey went outside to speak to their chauffeur, leaving Selma and Angela together.
‘You will write, won’t you?’ said Selma. ‘I should hate to lose touch again.’
Angela readily agreed. She had enjoyed getting reacquainted with Selma despite a certain embarrassment with regard to Aubrey.
Selma took Angela’s hand and lowered her voice.
‘I want to thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’ said Angela in surprise.
‘For keeping Aubrey at arm’s length,’ said Selma. Before Angela could reply she went on, ‘I should have been awfully jealous, you know. I never would have said a word—fair’s fair, when all’s said and done—but I’d have hated it. I could stand anybody but you.’
She put a finger over her lips and ran out to join her husband. Angela stood for a second, eyebrows raised, then followed Selma out and waved the Daimler off as it departed down the drive. When it had quite disappeared from view, she walked slowly back into the house, deep in thought. Her reverie was broken by the sound of stamping just outside the front door, and she turned to
see Freddy kicking the snow off his boots and brandishing a shovel. His bruises were developing nicely and his ear was bandaged, but he was looking as cheerful as ever.
‘Brr!’ he said. ‘Hallo, Angela. You’ll no doubt be pleased to hear that I have managed to find my car and dig it out, although it went into a huff when I tried to start it. I don’t think it has forgiven me for abandoning it in a snowdrift. May I borrow William, please? If anybody can fix it, he can.’
‘Why, certainly,’ said Angela. ‘Are you going tomorrow? I suppose you’ll have to get back to the paper soon and start work on your story.’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘I’m to receive instructions from Jameson first, though. He’s going to tell me what I can and can’t write. Of course, I can’t just palm off a work of fiction onto old Bickerstaffe—I mean, I know it’s only the Clarion, but there are limits—so Jameson is going to square things with him before I start.’
‘Do you think Mr. Bickerstaffe will be amenable to printing it?’ said Angela.
‘If it’s a choice between that and losing the exclusive I should say he’ll jump at the opportunity,’ said Freddy.
‘I wonder if the general public will fall for it,’ said Angela.
‘With Frederick Pilkington-Soames writing the story? Why, they’ll lap it up! Once they’ve read my thrilling prose, gasped in horror and shed a tear over the terrible events at Fives Castle, and taken another good long look at that daring photograph of Gertie that was in all the newspapers last year, they’ll be clamouring to believe it—will be most indignant at the mere suggestion that it might not be true, in fact.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Angela. ‘I know some members of the Government seem to have been wandering around with their eyes closed in recent months, but I’d rather be ruled by politicians who have the same weaknesses as the rest of us than have no rulers at all. And if nothing else, I should hate to see Eleanor Buchanan held responsible for the Government’s collapse.’
‘Well said,’ said Freddy. ‘I say, I wonder if they’ll ever manage to decipher those documents now that Professor Klausen is no more. Why, they don’t even know which are the real ones.’
‘I dare say they’ll set some of their tame scientists onto it,’ said Angela, ‘and besides, Klausen must have kept notes of his work, surely. I can’t believe the papers are the only record of all those years of research. He probably has pages and pages of stuff locked away in a safe somewhere.’
‘Oh, probably,’ agreed Freddy.
‘Well, then, everything seems to have been cleared up to everyone’s satisfaction,’ said Angela. ‘The murder has been solved and the documents recovered, and I have begun to re-establish myself with Lady Strathmerrick as a respectable woman.’
‘Why, has your chap gone?’ said Freddy.
‘Aubrey and Selma have left, if that is whom you are referring to,’ she said.
‘Very wise on Selma’s part to take her husband away before you could steal him back,’ said Freddy.
Angela was about to reply hotly when she saw his face and changed her mind.
‘You really are the most awful tease, Freddy,’ she said. ‘My behaviour has been above reproach, as you well know.’
‘Oh, but you don’t want to be too respectable, do you?’ he said. ‘Why, people will think you’re no fun. Personally, I prefer being naughty.’
‘I’d noticed,’ said Angela dryly.
Freddy was looking at something over her shoulder.
‘In fact, I’m going to be naughty this minute,’ he said mischievously, and before she could stop him he threw his arms around her and kissed her enthusiastically, then let her go and slipped away quickly, leaving her standing there gaping. It was a second or two before she could collect her thoughts enough to notice the startled expression on the face of Lady Strathmerrick, who was just then passing—as Freddy had been well aware. Angela blushed. The Countess quickly recovered herself and moved on haughtily.
‘Bother,’ said Angela, and lifted a hand to smooth her hair.
***
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Also by Clara Benson
THE MURDER AT SISSINGHAM HALL
On his return from South Africa, Charles Knox is invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Sir Neville Strickland, whose beautiful wife Rosamund was once Knox's fiancée. But in the dead of night Sir Neville is murdered. Who did it? As suspicion falls on each of the house guests in turn, Knox finds himself faced with deception and betrayal on all sides, and only the enigmatic Angela Marchmont seems to offer a solution to the mystery.
This 1920s whodunit will delight all fans of traditional country house murder stories.
THE MYSTERY AT UNDERWOOD HOUSE
Old Philip Haynes was never happier than when his family were at each other's throats. Even after his death the terms of his will ensured they would keep on feuding. But now three people are dead and the accusations are flying. Can there really be a murderer in the family? Torn between friendship and duty, Angela Marchmont must find out the truth before the killer can strike again.
THE TREASURE AT POLDARROW POINT
When Angela Marchmont goes to Cornwall on doctor's orders she is looking forward to a nice rest and nothing more exciting than a little sea-bathing. But her plans for a quiet holiday are dashed when she is caught up in the hunt for a diamond necklace which, according to legend, has been hidden in the old smugglers' house at Poldarrow Point for over a century.
Aided by the house's elderly owner, an irrepressible twelve-year-old, and a handsome Scotland Yard detective, Angela soon finds herself embroiled in the most perplexing of mysteries. Who is the author of the anonymous letters? Why is someone breaking into the house at night? And is it really true that a notorious jewel-thief is after the treasure too? Angela must use all her powers of deduction to solve the case and find the necklace—before someone else does.
THE RIDDLE AT GIPSY’S MILE
Lost in the mists of the Romney Marsh, Angela Marchmont stumbles upon the body of a woman whose face has been disfigured—presumably to prevent recognition. Who is she, and what was she doing out there in the middle of nowhere? The search for answers will take Angela from a grand stately home to London’s most fashionable—and disreputable—night-club, and into a murky world of illegal drinking, jazz music and lost souls.
About the Author
Clara Benson was born in 1890 and as a young woman wrote several novels featuring Angela Marchmont. She was unpublished in her lifetime, preferring to describe her writing as a hobby, and it was not until many years after her death in 1965 that her family rediscovered her work and decided to introduce it to a wider audience.