by Clara Benson
They shook hands cordially, then Inspector Jameson strode off and disappeared into the throng. Angela gazed after him for a moment, then went in search of a taxi and returned to her Mount Street flat.
She had a dinner engagement that evening, and so for the next few hours was forced to put Louisa’s problem out of her mind, but on the way home she was able to give the matter some thought.
‘May I ask you rather an odd question, William?’ she said to her driver.
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ replied the young man.
‘If you suspected that someone you knew had done something wicked, would you try and find out the truth? Even if it meant his getting into trouble?’
William had spent his early career touring America with a vaudeville company and was a keen observer of human nature, which made him an invaluable sounding-board on occasion. He considered before replying.
‘We-ell, if you have a particular instance in mind, I can’t rightly say without knowing the details,’ he said. ‘But I do recollect one time, must’ve been back in Chicago, we had a lady who joined us to sing the opera. A real beautiful voice, she had. Why, the tears would come to your eyes just to listen to her. She brought along a husband who was by way of being her agent. There to look after her interests, she said. Anyhow, one day she came and raised an almighty ruckus, saying that one of us had stolen her precious pearl necklace, and which of us was it? Great store she always set by that necklace. It had once belonged to the Queen of Prussia, or some such personage. My, wasn’t there a commotion! She wouldn’t be satisfied until we all turned out our belongings so they could be searched, but nothing was found. As you may imagine, she made no friends that day but a lot of enemies.’
‘Was the necklace ever recovered?’ asked Angela.
‘Why yes,’ said William. ‘It turned out that that no-good husband of hers was up to his eyes in debt to some card-sharps, and he’d pawned it. They went away soon after that. I guess she left wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.’
‘I guess she did,’ said Angela, by no means reassured.
FOUR
‘I must say, I was rather surprised to find that it was Louisa Haynes who sent you,’ said Mr. Faulkner, as he ushered Mrs. Marchmont with great politeness into his office. ‘When my clerk told me that Mrs. Haynes was sending someone to look into these recent unfortunate events, I immediately assumed that he was referring to Mrs. Ursula Haynes. Please, do take a seat.’
Mr. Faulkner was a man of about sixty-five, and suited his name well, being tall, with a luxuriant head of hair which swept grandly away from his forehead like feathers, and a high, beaked nose. Despite his somewhat haughty air, he was the very model of old-fashioned courtesy.
‘I’m afraid I hardly know where to begin,’ said Angela. ‘I agreed to do this rather against my inclination and now I find myself in the awkward position of having to ask pointed questions of people I have only just met.’
‘Well then, suppose I give you a little assistance. I shall tell you everything I know—that is, everything I believe to be relevant to the story, and you shall ask me any questions that may occur to you as we go along.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela.
Mr. Faulkner placed the tips of his fingers together and thought a moment.
‘I think first of all you must understand something of the nature of the family with whom we are dealing, and Philip Haynes in particular, since he is the nucleus around whom they all—I almost said revolved, but it would be more accurate to say revolve, as his influence is felt to this day. You will no doubt have heard that he was a difficult character: capricious, mercurial and devious, and that he ruled his family by a combination of fear and manipulation. I was one of his closest associates, and even I cannot quarrel with such a description. Whether or not I approve of the way in which he brought up his children is immaterial; the fact is, they grew up under his guidance and turned out much as you might expect with such a father, with personality difficulties that manifested themselves in a variety of ways.’
‘I see you are a student of psychology,’ said Angela.
‘One cannot practise law for over forty years without learning something of the human mind,’ said the solicitor, smiling. ‘At any rate, when old Philip died he left behind him a family beset by mistrust and rivalry—one might even say enmity in some cases: John and Edward disliked each other heartily, for example, and I believe the two sisters were hardly close.’
‘The mother died many years ago, I understand.’
‘Yes, and there was another girl who ran away from home and later died. Some might say she had a fortunate escape.’
‘Philip Haynes seems to have been something of an eccentric, then,’ said Angela. ‘That must explain why he put such an odd clause into his will.’
‘An odd clause? What do you mean?’ said Mr. Faulkner, looking taken aback.
‘I mean the condition that, in order to inherit, his children must meet at Underwood House twice a year.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I see,’ said Mr. Faulkner. ‘Yes, that was in the nature of the man. He was malicious, you know, and very much the type to attempt to exert an influence even from beyond the grave. I’m afraid he would have taken great glee in the idea of forcing them to spend time with each other against their wishes.’
‘You are the executor of his will. Did he leave specific instructions as to the dates on which these twice-yearly meetings were to take place? The first two were on the 16th of February and the 27th of May last year, while the last one was this year on the 16th of February again. Is the next one to take place on the 27th of May?’
‘Yes, I believe it is, now you come to mention it. As a matter of fact, I was just preparing the invitations this morning.’ He opened a drawer in his desk. ‘Now, let me see—ah! Here they are,’ he said, taking out a small sheaf of papers. He applied a pair of pince-nez to his eyes and frowned at the top page. From where she sat, Angela could see that he signed his name with a grand flourish. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘the next date given is the 27th of May, 1927. How remiss of me not to notice the coincidence.’
‘Is there any significance in the two dates?’ asked Angela.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Mr. Faulkner. ‘But I was not privy to all of Philip’s secrets. I was merely instructed to send letters requesting attendance about two weeks before the date of the meeting itself.’
‘Only two weeks! Isn’t that very short notice?’
‘Those were my instructions,’ replied the solicitor.
‘How did you make sure everyone attended as requested? I suppose you didn’t go to Underwood House yourself?’
‘No, as I told the police I was engaged elsewhere on each of those days. On the first two occasions I happened to be staying with Sir Maurice Upton, the Chief Constable of this district, and on the third I was the guest of Lord Willesden, the former Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department, and his wife, at their home in Somerset. No, I sent my clerk, Hawley, down to Beningfleet on the dates in question. He merely stayed until all the family had arrived then left. I did not think it necessary for him to continue there for the whole evening—whatever Philip had intended it was certainly not my objective to force them all to remain in company with each other. As far as I was concerned the Hayneses had fulfilled the conditions of the will by making the journey. Whether or not they chose to stay there once they had arrived was hardly my affair.’
‘I see.’
‘And besides,’ he went on dryly, ‘I knew them of old. Much as they disliked one another, it was unthinkable that any of them should show weakness and be the first to flee the field. They would far rather have stayed and fought to the death.’ He caught himself. ‘Dear me, that was a rather unfortunate choice of expression on my part,’ he said.
‘If you were not present at the time then I imagine you won’t know much about how they all died,’ said Mrs. Marchmont.
‘Very little,’ replied Mr. Faulkner. ‘I know Philippa Haynes was t
hought to have died of heart failure, but that was hardly a surprise given the generally weak state of her health. And poor Winifred tripped and fell downstairs, I understand. Again, that doesn’t seem unlikely. She spent much of her time drifting about in a day-dream and may easily have lost her footing.’
‘She didn’t fall downstairs exactly; she toppled over the balustrade,’ said Angela.
‘Ah yes, of course—I’d forgotten that.’
‘Rather difficult to do that simply by losing one’s footing, don’t you think?’
‘But now you mention it, wasn’t there some talk of her leaning over to adjust a ceiling-light? Perhaps she was simply very unlucky.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Angela. ‘Then we come to Edward, who drowned while out on the lake despite apparently hating water and boats.’
‘Yes, it is difficult to see how that could have been an accident. But that doesn’t mean it was murder.’
‘Do you mean suicide? Did he have a reason to kill himself?’ asked Angela. ‘I don’t recall its being mentioned as a possibility.’
‘I do not know. For that you must ask Ursula Haynes—although in my experience, a wife is often the last person to know of her husband’s unhappiness, so perhaps even that will be of little assistance.’
Angela reflected for a moment on what the solicitor had told her. It seemed to her that she had learned very little.
‘There is also the question of motive,’ she said cautiously. ‘If all three of them were murdered, then it stands to reason that there must be someone who benefits from their deaths.’
Mr. Faulkner twinkled at her.
‘Indeed, and I am fully aware that my name must be at the very top of the list of suspects as regards financial motive, but as I mentioned before, I was not myself present when any of them died. And money is not the only possible reason for desiring someone’s death.’
‘No,’ agreed Angela. ‘But it is the most obvious reason. It remains to be seen what other motives there might be in this case.’
‘But it has yet to be proved that any of them were murdered. You are assuming that if Edward was killed deliberately, then Philippa and Winifred must have been killed deliberately too. Had it occurred to you that the first two deaths may have been entirely accidental?’
‘Yes,’ said Angela, ‘but that doesn’t make things any easier, I’m afraid.’
‘I will admit I don’t envy you your task,’ said the lawyer, ‘but perhaps you will find out something useful. You have a sympathetic face, Mrs. Marchmont, if you will pardon my saying so. You are the kind of person to whom people confide secrets. That is something of which you can take advantage if you wish.’
‘Well, I shall try my best,’ said Angela. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Louisa said you had Philip’s will. Might I see it?’
‘But of course,’ said Mr. Faulkner. ‘I have it here in my safe.’
He rose and crossed the room, then stopped. He patted his pocket in dismay.
‘Ah, my mistake,’ he said. ‘I have just remembered that I took my safe keys out of my pocket at home yesterday evening and omitted to replace them this morning. I do beg your pardon. Perhaps another time.’
‘No matter,’ said Angela. ‘I expect I have already heard the most important points.’
‘Yes, I do not believe I have missed anything out that could be of use to you, but if there is anything else you wish to ask, I shall be more than happy to assist in any way I can.’
‘Thank you. I believe my next step must be to find out more about the events of the three days in question. I shall speak to Louisa.’
‘At least you have already eliminated one person from your inquiry. That ought to help you a little. And speaking quite frankly, it is a great relief to me,’ said the solicitor.
‘Yes,’ replied Angela. ‘You appear to have impeccable alibis. Nobody could possibly suspect a government minister and a chief constable of telling lies to protect someone.’
Their eyes met for a moment, then Mr. Faulkner smiled and bowed her out of his office.
FIVE
As Angela approached the front door of Underwood House, it was flung open and a tall young man wearing a shabby Burberry and carrying a battered portmanteau emerged with a brow like thunder, and set off down the road at a great pace. Angela had the impression that she recognized him, but he was soon out of sight and she continued on into the house where she met Louisa Haynes in the hall.
‘There you are, my dear,’ said Louisa. ‘Did you see Donald? I wanted to say goodbye but I’m afraid he was in rather a bad temper. Not to worry—he’ll cool down in an hour or so as he always does. He’s such a dear boy, but I rather think he’s quarrelled with Stella. I saw her running upstairs a little while ago. I do hope they make it up. They have such flaming rows but they are so well-matched in every respect.’
‘Was that really Donald?’ said Angela. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen him since he was quite a small boy.’
‘Yes, hasn’t he grown? He works at the Board of Trade. I don’t quite know what he does but he travels abroad often and negotiates with foreign dignitaries and suchlike. He has gone off to catch his train, as he is attending an important conference in The Hague tomorrow, but I do wish he and Stella hadn’t parted on bad terms.’
‘Who is Stella?’
‘Haven’t you met her? She is my sister’s eldest child, but she spends much of her time with us since her parents died. She works as a private nurse, looking after elderly patients. She is so kind to them—it quite warms one’s heart to see it. She and Donald are engaged.’
‘He is to marry his cousin? Oh, I quite forgot—Donald is not your own son, is he?’
‘No,’ said Louisa, ‘we adopted him as a baby after his own parents died about twenty years ago. John knew the people and brought him home one day. It was very sad, but as we were not fortunate enough to have children of our own, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise for us.’
They were still standing in the hall of Underwood House. It was a handsome entrance, light and airy, with an oak parquet floor and an elegant staircase which curved up towards a galleried landing above. Light flowed through a high window and glinted off a large, old-fashioned chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Angela’s attention was caught.
‘This must be where Winifred died,’ she said, gazing about her.
‘Yes,’ said Louisa. ‘We found her on the floor just there with her handkerchief grasped in her hand. The poor thing fell from above, broke her neck and was killed instantly.’
‘That was on the afternoon of the 27th of May last year. Do you remember at what time?’
‘It was a little before four o’clock.’
‘And you say no-one witnessed it?’
‘No, we were all elsewhere.’
‘All together?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’
‘It might be helpful in establishing alibis—or better, in proving that it was an accident.’
‘I see what you mean. Well then, let me try and remember.’ Mrs. Haynes reflected for a second. ‘Most of the family had already arrived, I believe. Yes—as a matter of fact they must all have been there, since Mr. Faulkner’s clerk had already paid his visit and left, after making sure we were all present. I was in the drawing-room to welcome the visitors, and Stella was there too. Oh, and Ursula and Edward. I don’t remember where Robin and Susan were.’
‘What about John?’
‘John was in his study. He liked to leave it until as late as possible before showing himself. He said it was the only way he could survive these meetings without killing someone—oh dear! I didn’t mean it in that way. How dreadful of me!’
Angela smiled understandingly.
‘Is that everybody accounted for?’ she asked. ‘Where was Donald?’
Just then they were interrupted by the opening of the front door to admit a pleasant-looking young man of thirty or so who saluted Mrs. Haynes cheerfully.
‘Hallo,’ he said.
‘It’s awfully quiet here. Has Don left? I thought I saw him making for the station post-haste just now. I shouted but he didn’t or wouldn’t see me. What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s had another row with Stella,’ said Louisa.
The young man grimaced.
‘I say, bad show,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’
‘In her room. I shall go up later and see that she’s all right.’
‘Poor thing. I do wish Don would rein it in sometimes. He’s no right to go upsetting her like that.’
‘Now, Guy, it’s not fair to say that when we don’t know what it was about,’ said Louisa. ‘Angela, let me introduce you to Guy Fisher. He has been running the Underwood estate since Philip was alive, and I simply don’t know how we’d manage without him. Guy, this is my great friend Mrs. Angela Marchmont. She is the one I told you about, do you remember? She is trying to find out what happened to Philippa, Winifred and Edward.’
Guy Fisher regarded Angela with interest as he shook her hand.
‘So Louisa has persuaded you to look into all this,’ he said. ‘Shall you succeed in unravelling the mystery, do you think?’
Angela laughed.
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Louisa seems to believe I may be able to shed some light on the affair. I am not sure I share her confidence, however.’
‘Well, I shall be very happy to help if I can.’
‘Were you here when Winifred Dennison fell over the balustrade?’
‘No, I didn’t arrive until some time after it happened,’ said the young man. ‘It was my mother’s birthday and I’d been away visiting her. I returned to find the whole house in an uproar. Susan was hysterical, and no wonder.’
‘Oh yes, poor thing,’ said Mrs. Haynes.
‘Who arrived on the scene first after Winifred fell?’ asked Angela.
‘Why, I couldn’t say,’ said Louisa. ‘Let me think. Stella, Ursula, Edward and I must have all rushed out together, since we were all in the drawing-room at the time. But were we the first?’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘No—no, I remember now. The first thing I saw when I arrived was Robin bending over her. He looked up, terribly white in the face, and said, “She’s dead.” Just like that. Then I’m afraid he ran outside and was sick. And Donald was there too. I remember particularly because Stella cried, “Oh Don, not another one!” and ran over and clung to him. Then Susan emerged from her room, took one look at the scene and fainted on the landing. I had to rush upstairs and see to her. I don’t remember when John turned up.’
