THE RIDDLE AT GIPSY’S MILE
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
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-1-291-77739-0
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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.
ONE
The Romney Marsh in Kent is famous for its stark, flat beauty, and its vast expanses of landscape. A thousand years ago it belonged to the sea, but over the centuries the enterprising local populace slowly began to drain the land and claim it for their own. Today, it is a quiet, sparsely-inhabited place: an area of grazing land bounded by a criss-crossing of drainage ditches and narrow lanes in which it is easy for the unwary traveller to lose his way. It is so deserted that one might travel for miles without seeing a soul.
It was along one of these lanes on a chilly September day that Lucy Syms rode her chestnut mare at a gentle trot. The morning had been fine—sunny with just that hint of crispness in the air which betokened the arrival of autumn—but after lunch, when she had set out again, the clouds had descended suddenly and the mist had begun to roll in across the marsh. Soon it would be impossible to see anything. Lucy gave an impatient click of her tongue. Her horse, Castana, was a skittish, nervy type who disliked the fog and needed only the slightest excuse to become restive.
‘Don’t worry, girl,’ said Lucy soothingly, as the mare tossed her head and snorted. She patted Castana’s neck. ‘We’ll turn back in a moment. It’s just our bad luck that this mist decided to come down now.’
She straightened up and looked about her, hoping that the sun would burn through the mist quickly. But no: even as she looked, the grey dampness extended its arms and enfolded them both in its clammy embrace. The horse pranced and huffed.
‘Bother,’ said Lucy. She nudged Castana. ‘Come on, then. We’ll have to try again when the fog lifts.’
Just then she heard the familiar sound of a motor-engine in the distance, and paused to listen. The sound grew louder. She tugged on the reins gently and managed to persuade Castana to leave the road and stand on the grass verge. Presently, the outline of a large motor-car could be distinguished through the mist. It approached slowly and came to a halt by Lucy, its engine purring gently. A window opened.
‘Hallo,’ said a voice cheerfully. ‘I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but we seem to have lost our way.’
The voice belonged to a woman with dark hair and a smiling expression. She was dressed fashionably and elegantly and appeared to be somewhere in the middle thirties.
‘Where do you want to go?’ asked Lucy.
‘It’s a house called Gipsy’s Mile, just outside Littlechurch,’ said the woman. ‘The signposts are rather confusing around here and I fear we may have taken a wrong turning a little way back.’
‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Lucy. ‘I know Gipsy’s Mile very well. You must go back the way you came, then turn left. Carry on for five hundred yards or so then turn right at the crossroads. The house is on your right about a mile farther on.’
‘Thank you,’ said the woman, then to Lucy’s surprise turned and said something that sounded like, ‘Two bob!’ to her driver.
‘Are you a friend of the Harrisons?’ asked Lucy curiously.
‘Yes,’ replied the woman. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Yes—at least, my fiancé is a friend of Miles’s.’
‘Oh? Then perhaps we’ll see each other again. I’m Angela Marchmont, by the way.’
‘Lucy Syms,’ said Lucy. Castana was getting restless and showing signs of wanting to throw herself in front of the car. ‘I must take my horse home now. She doesn’t like the mist. Goodbye, and good luck!’
She nudged the mare and set off back the way she had come. A little way down the road she looked back and saw the car turning with some difficulty. After a few minutes it was successful and roared off into the fog. Lucy patted her horse’s neck and they started home at a trot.
In the car, Mrs. Marchmont was engaged in an animated debate with her American driver, William.
‘You agreed two bob,’ she said.
William shook his head.
‘I think you must have misheard me, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I merely said that if I were a betting man, I would bet you two shillings that this was the right road.’
Angela assumed a mock-stern expression.
‘I am shocked, William, shocked, that you should attempt to use such a shabby excuse to worm out of your responsibilities. I distinctly heard you promise to pay me money if you were wrong.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ said William. ‘It would be impertinent of me to contradict you directly, ma’am. But I’d like to remind you—respectfully, of course—that you still owe me half a crown from the last time we had a bet.’
‘What? Do you mean the boat race? But surely I paid up?’
William shook his head.
‘Nope,’ he said.
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘Perfectly certain.’
‘Oh!’ said Angela, and paused. ‘Then I suppose that means I am in your debt for sixpence.’
‘It would seem so, ma’am,’ agreed William, abandoning all pretence about the existence or otherwise of the two-shilling bet.
‘We shall have to do something about that,’ said Angela. ‘Now, let me see, what have we got? There’s the Autumn Double coming up. That ought to be worth a flutter. Terms to be agreed upon.’
‘You’re on,’ said William. ‘I want my sixpence, at the very least. Now then, that must be the turning there.’
He guided the Bentley carefully around the sharp bend, and almost immediately the car plunged into a dense patch of fog, rendering the countryside around them almost completely invisible—so much so that it was barely possible to see more than a yard or two in any direction.
‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘How inconvenient. Should we stop and wait for the fog to clear, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. How long does it generally last around these parts?’ said William doubtfully. ‘Days, or only hours?’
‘I was thinking rather in terms of minutes,’ said Angela, ‘but since I have no desire to sit in the middle of a field until Sunday, perhaps we had better press on. Be careful, though.’
William switched on the head-lamps and advanced cautiously. The road was wide enough to admit only one vehicle, and was bounded on both sides by deep drainage channels which were almost entirely screened off by thick hedgerow. One careless move and the car coul
d career off the road and into the ditch. After a hundred yards or so, the fog thinned and William accelerated a little. He was too precipitate, however, for almost immediately they plunged into another fog patch, causing him to slow again—luckily for the flock of sheep which happened at that moment to be wandering in the lane just ahead of them. There was a thump and a chorus of bleats, and William gave a yell of surprise and swerved to the right. He was briefly aware of a horde of startled woolly faces caught in the beam of the head-lamps, before the Bentley hurtled through the hedgerow, tipped forwards and screeched to a stop on a muddy bank, just inches from the water.
There was a moment of silence.
‘Are we there yet?’ said Angela sweetly.
William drew a deep breath and wiped his brow.
‘I’m deeply sorry about that, ma’am. You’re not hurt, I hope?’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Angela. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m fine—I think,’ he said.
‘Can we get out, do you imagine?’
William opened the door and stepped out carefully. Angela, fearful that the alteration in the car’s weight might cause it to slide further into the ditch, did likewise without waiting for him. They gazed at the Bentley, which sat at a crazy angle and seemed to glare back at them reproachfully.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any use in trying to back it out,’ said Angela. ‘The sides of this ditch are far too steep. We shall need some horses, or a mechanic, or something. Do you think there’s much damage?’
William rubbed his chin and bent to examine the front wheels.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There was a mighty big thump as we went down. I wonder about the front axle.’
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do at present,’ said Angela. ‘Suppose we get the luggage out and carry it up the bank. I’ll help you.’
William unloaded the suitcases while Angela examined the muddy sides of the ditch, trying to decide upon the best and least dirty spot from which to climb up to the road. During its header, the Bentley had torn a gap in the hedgerow, and the bank there was slippery, with deep tyre tracks, and impossible to climb. Angela picked her way gingerly along the water’s edge to where the undergrowth was thicker and the slope less steep and muddy.
‘I believe we might be able to get up here,’ she called to William. The young man joined her and she pointed out the spot she meant. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘There, to the left of that blue rag. We can use these branches as handholds.’
William nodded.
‘All right,’ he said, and picked up the biggest suitcase, which was awkward but fortunately not heavy.
Angela picked up a smaller bag.
‘No need to do that, ma’am,’ said William.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Angela, and motioned to him impatiently to start.
They scrambled with difficulty up the steep bank, fighting their way through the thick undergrowth and using tree roots as stairs, then finally emerged from the thicket and stopped to catch their breath. The sheep were still milling about on the road. One seemed to be limping.
‘Look, that must be the one you hit,’ said Angela.
‘Blasted animals,’ said William with feeling. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’
‘Is that everything?’ said Angela.
‘There’s just my own things to fetch,’ said William, and half-swung, half-jumped back down the slope with a great cracking of twigs. Angela regarded the sheep. The sheep regarded Angela. Then one of them bleated and received a chorus of bleats in reply. It was almost as though they were laughing at her. She felt quite uncomfortable and turned away. The mist had thinned again and the sun was making feeble attempts to appear. Gipsy’s Mile was still some way away, but if they started soon they would arrive in time for tea, at any rate.
At that moment, there was a cry from behind her, and she heard a crack of branches and a thud. She turned and peered through the vegetation to find that William had dropped his suitcase, which had fallen and landed in the ditch. He was holding tightly onto the trunk of a tree, staring at something, pale in the face.
‘What on earth—’ began Angela, then followed his gaze and saw what he was looking at. Her eyes opened in surprise and she started forward, back down the bank.
‘Get away, ma’am,’ said William. ‘Get away.’
But it was too late. The two of them stared, open-mouthed, at the sight before them. Angela wondered how she could possibly have missed it, for the blue rag which she had seen before was not a blue rag at all. It was a woman’s coat. She was still wearing it, and she was quite, quite dead.
TWO
William swallowed. He was still very pale.
‘Go and fetch your suitcase,’ said Angela grimly. ‘We must call the police as soon as possible.’
‘Do—do you think it could have been an accident?’ said William.
‘I doubt it,’ said Angela. She moved a little closer. The dead woman was lying on her side, one arm thrown out above her head and the other wrapped about her own waist. It looked as though she had been thrown down the slope at the point where the undergrowth was thickest. Had William not swerved off the road, she might never have been discovered.
‘Perhaps we ought to carry her to the top of the bank,’ said William, although he did not look as though he relished the prospect.
‘No,’ said Angela firmly. ‘She must be left here. The police will want to examine the scene. We’ve already disturbed enough as it is. Go and get your things. We had better start off immediately.’
William did as he was instructed and returned, unable to stop himself from glancing at the dead woman as he passed again.
‘We shall get on quicker if we leave our things here,’ said Angela. ‘We can send someone back to get them later. Now, which way was it? I believe we carry on to the end here then turn right and walk for another mile.’
They set off along the road at a brisk pace. Lucy’s directions proved correct, and about twenty minutes later they arrived at the house and turned in at the gate. Gipsy’s Mile was a low, rambling farm-house which was set well back from the lane and was surrounded by grazing land. The house was named after a nearby field that had once been the site of illegal horse-racing, and it suited its name perfectly, given its ramshackle exterior and peeling paint. The Harrisons had moved to Kent from London on a whim a year or two ago, and Angela had been surprised at first, knowing Marguerite Harrison, who was not the sort of person to hide herself away from society. However, Marguerite had soon surrounded herself with a regular coterie of friends and hangers-on from London and elsewhere and, she assured Angela, had never been happier.
‘Darling! What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’ came a dramatic voice from a downstairs window as Angela and William walked up the front path with torn clothes and muddy shoes. ‘Don’t move an inch!’ the voice continued.
The window slammed and shortly afterwards the front door was flung open to reveal a tall, angular woman wearing an extraordinary head-dress and a gorgeous array of silk scarves and shawls. She ran out and engulfed Angela in a perfumed embrace, then stood back and examined her from head to toe in an attitude of exaggerated horror.
‘But where have you been?’ she said. ‘We were expecting you hours ago!’
‘I—’ began Angela, but Marguerite had caught sight of William, who had removed his chauffeur’s cap in order to brush the dirt off it.
‘And who is this?’ she said. ‘Why, Angela, you sly thing! You never said a word.’
William’s face turned a splendid shade of pink and he immediately clapped the hat back on his head.
‘This is my driver,’ said Angela hurriedly. ‘We had a bit of an accident on the way here.’
‘An accident? Why, you poor darling! You’re not hurt?’
‘No, just rather muddy. But Marguerite—’
‘Then we must get you cleaned up. Come in, darling, come in!’ She ushered them both into the house. ‘Miles! Mil
es! Angela has been in a terrible accident.’
‘Oh, no, it was nothing like that,’ said Angela as William escaped thankfully to the kitchen.
Miles Harrison emerged from somewhere and looked at Angela vaguely. He was even taller and thinner than his wife, with a long, mournful face and the air of a man who had long since given up the fight.
‘What’s that?’ he said to Marguerite. ‘Who’s had an accident?’
‘Angela, of course. Can’t you see the state of her?’
‘Oh, hallo, Angela,’ said Miles, seeming to recognize her at last. ‘What’s all this?’
‘We had an unexpected encounter with some sheep and ran into the ditch,’ said Angela. ‘We had to leave the car and our luggage and walk the rest of the way here. But listen, that’s not important—’
‘Miles, are those people at the garage in Littlechurch on the telephone? You must call them immediately,’ said Marguerite. ‘No—I have a better idea. Miles shall go and get your things and I’ll call the garage—or would it perhaps be better if we sent your driver? Let me think, now—’
Angela turned her eyes beseechingly to Miles Harrison, who perfectly understood.
‘I think Angela wants to tell us something, old girl,’ he said to his wife, who had grabbed the telephone and was gabbling urgently into the receiver, asking to be put through to the garage.
‘We must call the police immediately,’ said Angela. ‘You see, when we were climbing out of the ditch I’m afraid we found something rather unpleasant.’
Something in her tone caused both the Harrisons to turn their full attention to her.
‘What was it?’ said Marguerite, the receiver suspended in her hand.
‘It was the body of a woman.’
The Harrisons looked at each other. Even Marguerite was briefly silenced.
‘How awful,’ she said at last. ‘Did she fall into the ditch?’
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I’m very much afraid that she was murdered.’
The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4) Page 1