The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘You will have your little joke, Mr. Fisher, sir,’ said Briggs pleasantly. Taking the hint, he touched his hat and went on his way, pushing the wheelbarrow before him unsteadily.

  ‘I take it from the smell of smoke in the air that they are having a bonfire today,’ said Angela.

  ‘Either that, or cook has burnt the pudding again,’ said Guy. He spoke in his usual jocular manner but seemed distracted, as though he had something else on his mind.

  ‘Has there been any news of Robin?’ asked Angela.

  He roused himself with an effort and shook his head.

  ‘No, none at all. Wherever he is, he’s gone to ground pretty thoroughly, I’ll say that for him. If you ask me, I think he got out of the country before the hue and cry was raised. At this moment he is probably strolling along the Promenade des Anglais in a regrettable suit, or sunning himself on a hilltop overlooking Rome, counting his ill-gotten gains with glee and congratulating himself on how clever he has been.’

  ‘You sound as though you envied him.’

  ‘Indeed I do. Not his ill-gotten gains, naturally, but all the rest. I have always wanted to travel to far-off places, but have never had the opportunity.’

  ‘Shall you go abroad one day, do you think?’

  ‘I hope so. I have glorious dreams of taking my pretty young wife on a grand wedding tour to Florence or Venice or Stamboul. That’s always supposing Ste—any woman should take leave of her senses for long enough to agree to marry me.’

  ‘I’m sure there are many women of perfectly good sense who would be happy to accept you,’ said Angela, smiling.

  ‘I used to think that myself,’ he said sadly, ‘but at the last tally I have been turned down by twenty-three women—or was it twenty-four? I’m not sure I should count Mrs. Harrison, who runs the tea-shop, but really, her scones were so delicious that I was moved by an overwhelming urge to propose. And now I really must go, or I shall find myself proposing to you too and then we shall fall out.’

  He went off and Angela turned, laughing, to go into the house, but was brought up short by the sight of Donald Haynes striding towards her with a purposeful look on his face.

  ‘I say, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘Might I have a word with you about Stella?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Angela in surprise.

  Donald smiled briefly.

  ‘Let’s walk away from the house where we shan’t be overheard,’ he said.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be better off talking to Stella?’ suggested Angela. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you that she can’t tell you better herself.’

  ‘But that’s just it—she won’t speak to me at all,’ he replied crossly, ‘and I don’t know what it is I’m meant to have done.’

  ‘Don’t you? I thought you’d had a quarrel—something about her giving up work after you marry.’

  He waved a hand.

  ‘Oh, we quarrel about that all the time, but she knows very well that I should never stop her from doing it if she really wanted to. Besides, I don’t believe she does want to keep working, since she only threatens to do it when she’s in a miff with me. Listen, Mrs. Marchmont, you must be aware that Stella and I—well, we have known each other all our lives. We grew up together. We know each other as well as anybody can know another person. We are soul-mates. When we row, it’s nothing but a brother-and-sister kind of scrap. It clears the air and we laugh about it afterwards. But this is different. We had a fight about something or other a week or two ago and she won’t make it up, although goodness knows I’ve tried often enough to find out what it is that’s bothering her. Whenever she sees me she runs off. How am I supposed to win her over if she won’t even talk to me?’

  ‘What was the last row about?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I can remember. It was one of those “nothing” things, if you see what I mean. I said something in passing and she flared up and started accusing me of all kinds of mysterious transgressions that she wouldn’t name. But it wasn’t my sins themselves that offended her, so far as I could tell—no, believe it or not, it was the fact that I would not confide in her about them that exercised her. How could we get married, she said, when I was keeping secrets from her? She would stand by me through thick and thin, and she would see to it that I got all the help I needed, but she was damned if she was going to be shut out.’

  ‘That’s what she said, is it?’ said Angela thoughtfully.

  ‘I only wish I knew what I was supposed to have done. But she won’t tell me. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. I was hoping that you would talk to her on my behalf, at least to find out why she’s so angry with me.’

  ‘But wouldn’t your mother be a more suitable person in this case?’

  ‘Mother’s tried, but Stella won’t talk to her about it.’

  ‘Then why should I have any more success?’

  ‘She likes you—admires you very much. And besides, since you are an outsider she will find it easier to talk to you, as you ought to be free from any prejudice in the matter.’

  Angela relented.

  ‘Very well, I shall try,’ she said, ‘but I can’t promise anything. She may prove stubborn.’

  ‘She’s that, all right,’ said Donald fervently. ‘But you are my last hope. After you I have—nothing.’ He raised his hands and let them fall.

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m sure something will turn up. In fact, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she comes round after I have gone. I believe this whole affair—and especially my investigation of it—is making everybody in the house somewhat agitated and nervous.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ he asked eagerly, as though willing to snatch at any theory that might give him hope. ‘I say, now you put it that way—it’s not much fun for us all to have the police and detectives and what-not tramping around the place all the time, asking silly questions.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angela dryly, but he paid no heed, caught up with this new idea. He turned to her.

  ‘When—do you have any idea—I mean to say—’

  ‘When shall I be gone? That is what you want to ask, I believe?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘No—no, of course that’s not—’

  ‘I quite understand. I should feel the same in your position, and between you and me, I shall also be very glad when this business is finished. I only agreed to do it because your mother was so very persuasive that I could not say no. I am not a detective, you know, and perhaps that is why nothing has yet been resolved. Cave the meddling amateur,’ she said with mock seriousness. ‘Far from helping, he may make things even worse.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Donald. ‘I know Mother is terribly grateful to you for all that you’ve done up to now—and it’s so much better than having the police here, and our names in the papers, and all that kind of unpleasantness.’

  ‘Do you still wish me to speak to Stella, then, or should you rather try again with her once this is all over?’

  ‘Yes, please do speak to her, Mrs. Marchmont. Who knows when this whole thing will be finished? It may take months, and by then—why, I don’t know—she may have found someone else who can give her what she wants.’

  He did not mention Guy, but he did not need to.

  ‘I shall talk to Stella now, if I may, then,’ said Angela. ‘In fact, she is the reason I came here today. I wanted to speak to her about something else.’

  ‘She has gone into the village, but she will be back soon. Will you come into the house?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I think I shall walk down to the lake. I should like to reflect. I shall be back soon.’

  She turned and headed towards the path that led through the woods. As she did so she saw Briggs again, hobbling across the lawn carrying something that looked like a bundle of old rags. He stopped as he saw her and held it up in exaggerated puzzlement.

  Angela, since she was clearly expected to do so, obligingly asked, ‘What’s that?’

  She moved to get a
closer look. It was filthy and stained and burnt around the edges, but was nonetheless easily recognizable.

  ‘Why, it looks like a dinner jacket,’ she said.

  ‘And trousis too,’ nodded Briggs. ‘Somebody had shoved them under the heap of rubbish to be burned. I nearly died of fright, I did—I thought it was a tramp who’d gone to sleep under it all to keep warm, and there we’d gone and set ’im ablaze. So I started to drag it out and saw it weren’t nothing but a set of clothes.’

  ‘But whose are they?’ asked Angela. ‘May I?’

  She took what was left of the jacket gingerly and laid it out on the grass. A brief examination showed no laundry marks or other means of identification. A similar search of the trousers was just as unsuccessful.

  ‘There’s nothing in the pockets,’ she said, and turned her attention to the sleeves of the jacket as Briggs looked on in polite mystification. ‘Hmm. Inconclusive,’ she said at last, then picked up the trousers and peered at the ankles. ‘They have obviously been wet and muddy at some time, but they could easily have got that way by being shoved into a heap of garden rubbish. I don’t suppose you know how long these clothes were there, Briggs?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he said.

  Angela reached a decision.

  ‘These things must be kept,’ she said. ‘I shall take them myself. Briggs, take these to the house and have someone wrap them up in a parcel for me, but be sure and keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Right you are, ma’am. And don’t worry, I shan’t breathe a word to the family,’ said the kindly Mr. Briggs, taking pity on poor Mrs. Marchmont, who was evidently in such reduced circumstances that she was forced to take whatever nasty old clothing she could scavenge from great folks’ houses.

  Angela thanked him and departed, happily unaware that below stairs she was now marked out as a destitute, although it would in future occur to her to wonder occasionally why the servants all seemed to single her out for especially kind treatment and extra cake.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The sun had gone in and a chill had descended when Angela entered the wood. She picked her way carefully along the rough path. The trees were already more thickly clothed with leaves than they had been a week or two ago when she had last come along here, so she did not see the lake until she came upon it unexpectedly as she rounded a bend and saw the little cove ahead.

  She walked down to the edge of the water and dipped her hand into it, letting it trickle through her fingers. It was cold and clear, and she could see that the sand and pebbles sloped gently away without any steep drop. It would certainly have made more sense from the murderer’s point of view to kill Edward here, rather than out on the lake where he would be likely to struggle and perhaps tip them both overboard. She half-closed her eyes, trying to visualize the events of that night. In her mind’s eye she saw Edward standing by the dark shore, gazing out at the water. Suddenly, he heard something and turned round to see a shadowy figure approaching. Perhaps he nodded curtly and greeted the newcomer. Was he surprised to see him? Or was the meeting prearranged?

  What happened after that? Angela pictured the stiff conversation, which gradually intensified into an altercation and then a struggle that Edward Haynes could never win. She imagined him, his arms and legs thrashing in a desperate fight for life as his assailant threw him to the ground and held his head mercilessly under the water until he grew still. Angela saw the murderer rise, panting, and glance contemptuously at the body of his fallen foe before setting to work, stripping off his own things, hefting Edward over his shoulders and lowering him into the rowing-boat. She saw him pull strongly out towards the middle of the lake and then stop to grapple with his load. She could almost hear the grunt and the splash as he consigned Edward to his watery grave. Perhaps he stopped to contemplate his handiwork for a moment or two—or to make sure his victim was truly dead. Then he dived neatly from the boat, causing barely a ripple, and struck back to shore with long, powerful strokes. He must have crept back into the house as quietly as possible, so as not to draw attention to the state of his clothes. Perhaps he had run upstairs and changed into another suit, then come downstairs to rejoin the company. Had he sat in the drawing-room, chatting idly and inwardly congratulating himself on his success? Or perhaps it had all happened after everyone else had gone to bed. There was no way of knowing.

  One thing was clear, however: a man had murdered Edward, not a woman. A woman might have poisoned Philippa, or might have pushed Winifred from a height, but it would certainly have taken a man’s strength to kill Edward with such violence, such brute force. But who was it?

  Deep in her own reflections, Angela forgot the time and was only recalled to herself by the realization that she was getting very chilly. A stiff breeze had got up and she could smell the smoke from the bonfire as it burned elsewhere in the grounds. Her thoughts returned to the suit. As far as she could judge, it might fit any one of the men in the house—except perhaps Robin, who was more slightly built than the others. She would look at it more closely once she got home, and would keep it to give to Inspector Jameson as evidence, should it ever be needed.

  She turned and made her way back towards the edge of the woods. Stella would surely be back by now, and Angela was keen to get to the bottom of the girl’s mysterious outburst of a few days ago—as well as to fulfil her promise and intercede with her on Donald’s behalf. The sky was even darker than before, and it looked as though a cloudburst threatened: there was that eerie silence that often precedes a storm. Angela tramped up the path, hearing nothing except the crunch of her own footsteps as she went. Even the birds were silent, waiting breathlessly for something, it seemed.

  She suddenly felt an insect at her ear and brushed at it impatiently, then started in surprise as the air was rent by a sharp pop! followed by a cracking noise close by. Angela stared for a second at the pale groove which had suddenly appeared at head height along the edge of a nearby tree trunk, and knew immediately what it was. Quick as lightning, she threw herself to the ground and scrambled round to the other side of the trunk, ripping the knees of her stockings as she did so. She made it by the skin of her teeth—even one second later and she might have been dead, in fact, for immediately another two bangs sounded, followed by a thunk as one of the bullets hit the tree behind which she was now crouching.

  Once the rushing in her ears and the beating of her heart had subsided, she froze and listened, thanking her stars that she was dressed in dun. For a few minutes the silence was complete, then came a low rumble of thunder. Angela pricked up her ears as she caught the faintest of sounds to her left, as though someone were using the peal as cover to move slowly through the trees. All was quiet again. He would have to make his move some time. Or was he waiting for her to come out? Well, he was a fool if he thought she was mad enough to stand up and reveal herself, or make a run for it. During her intrepid younger days, Angela had learned all sorts of tricks that had proved extremely convenient at the time—although she had never dreamed that she should have to put them to use again more than ten years later, when approaching staid middle-age. Nonetheless, she knew many useful things about how to hide, how to move as quietly as a mouse, and how to escape from sticky situations.

  The first thing to do was to get him to show himself, or at least find out where he was. She flattened herself against the tree, keeping as low as possible, and peered round the trunk slowly, but could see nothing. She sat back and chewed her thumb. Did he intend to wait for her to emerge? Surely there was no need for him to do that—after all, he was the one with the gun. Sure enough, after a moment or two she heard someone take a cautious step or two. Then the steps became more certain. Angela grabbed a handful of pebbles and shied them as far as she could. They hit a tree some distance away with a loud rattle. The footsteps stopped and she heard whoever it was moving hurriedly in the direction of the noise. As quickly as she could, Angela wriggled over to a larger clump of trees that afforded better shelter and hid among them. She wanted to see who
had attacked her and so peeped carefully through the leaves, trying to get a glimpse. But her shadowy assailant was evidently of the cautious type and there was no-one to be seen.

  Angela looked about her. She did not know how good a shot he was, but had no wish to test his skills by providing an easy target for him to practise on. She had the advantage at present, since he did not know where she was hiding, so she judged the best thing to do was to try and creep as far away as possible without being spotted, and then to make a run for it.

  Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself onto her stomach and inched her way forward, pausing frequently to listen and being careful to make no sound herself. Her goal was a thick shrub about five yards away, and she reached it without incident. The next move would be more difficult: she wanted to cut through the trees and reach the path further up, but there was a large area of open ground between her and the next patch of undergrowth which would give no cover at all.

  There was nothing for it: she would just have to get on with it. Making no sound, she wriggled forward inch by inch. When she had gone a few yards she stopped to listen again. The silence was complete. Had he given it up and gone away? Angela waited another minute or two but heard nothing. She raised her head cautiously, then jumped as something flashed past her left ear this time and thudded into the ground just ahead of her. Throwing caution to the winds, she scrambled at all speed in the direction of the next clump of trees, but had gone barely two yards when the ground gave way beneath her and she plunged into a little gully that had been hidden from view, and where perhaps a stream had once flowed.

  Angela gasped as she landed in a mess of dead leaves and cold mud, and lay there for a moment, winded. As she looked about her, she saw that the little channel wound for quite a way in both directions. Above her, the undergrowth grew across it and concealed her from view. This was a stroke of good fortune. With any luck, she could follow the watercourse along its length until she was out of sight of her attacker. As quickly as she could, she crawled in the direction in which she judged the path to lie, but her way shortly curved round and began to meander, and soon Angela had lost her bearings. She set her jaw and pressed on, as there seemed to be no other way out. Soon she was covered from head to toe in mud and filth. ‘I shall catch a terrible chill—always assuming I don’t catch a bullet in the head first, of course,’ she said to herself with grim humour.