by Clara Benson
Angela noticed that Donald’s features had relapsed into their customary gloom, but he said nothing. Was he concerned about Stella and Guy? She observed him covertly, thinking about their conversation. He had directly contradicted Robin’s story about who had arrived first on the scene after Winifred fell. Which of them was telling the truth? And another curious thing: John had claimed to be in his study at the time of the fall, but Donald had said that his father was not there when he looked. Where, then, had John been?
FOURTEEN
‘There you are,’ exclaimed Louisa as Stella and Guy entered the dining-room, laughing and flushed as though they had been running. ‘What on earth possessed you to run off half an hour before lunch?’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Louisa,’ said Stella, taking her place at the table. ‘I forgot to put my watch on and I didn’t realize how late it was.’
‘She speaks only the truth,’ said Guy. ‘And I should take the blame upon myself like a gentleman were it not for the fact that in this instance it was entirely the lady’s fault.’
‘Beast,’ said Stella. ‘You could have kept an eye on the time yourself.’
‘Alas, no,’ said Guy mournfully. ‘You forget that only yesterday the good people of Asprey’s told me that my watch was no more, had gone to a better place—in short, could not be mended. I must now wait until some kindly rich widow takes pity on me and buys me another.’
‘Or you could go somewhere other than Asprey’s and pay six pounds for a new one instead of thirty,’ said Stella.
‘What a ridiculous notion,’ said Guy. ‘One must keep up appearances at all times, however difficult that may be on a straitened stipend such as my own.’ He assumed an expression intended to convey a state of virtuous penury.
‘I suppose I am to take that as a hint,’ said John, laughing.
‘Not at all, sir, not at all,’ said Guy, as though the thought had never entered his head.
‘By the way, Angela,’ said Louisa, ‘did you ever find out whose photograph that was?’
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I showed it to Ursula and Robin but they couldn’t tell me.’
‘Which photograph?’ asked Stella curiously. ‘May I see it?’
‘I’m afraid not, as I rather unfortunately lost it yesterday.’
She told them what had happened, making light of the attack on herself, as she had no wish to worry Louisa. Even so, they all exclaimed in sympathy.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Stella. ‘Why did he take the picture and nothing else? Are you sure that was the only thing missing, Mrs. Marchmont?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Angela.
‘What is your theory?’ asked Guy.
Angela smiled.
‘I’m perfectly certain that the photograph was not stolen at all,’ she said. ‘Whoever took my bag was being hotly pursued by a group of enthusiastic bystanders, and so must have had only a moment or two to rifle through it before he was forced to abandon it and make his escape. The pursuers found it lying on the ground, open, and with nothing else missing from it. I therefore deduce that, since the thief can have had no possible reason for taking an old photograph, it must have fallen out of the bag and blown away.’
Was it her imagination, or was there a slight, almost imperceptible easing of tension in the room as she spoke? Had someone given a silent sigh of relief, perhaps? She did not believe for one second that the portrait had blown away, although she was much too sensible to reveal her true thoughts on the matter to the people most closely concerned with the case. But could one of the smiling, chattering people here really be the person who had pushed her with such violence into the path of a speeding motor-van?
After luncheon Louisa suggested that she and Angela go into the morning-room. John had gone out, while Guy had returned to work and Stella had disappeared to write a letter. Donald, who had toyed with his food in morose silence, muttered something about having some conference papers to look over and went off to the library. As he left, he grinned cheerfully at Angela, who was not yet accustomed to his lightning-quick changes of mood and was therefore a little startled.
Before they had even sat down Louisa said excitedly, ‘Now, my dear, you must tell me exactly what you have discovered so far. I have been simply dying to know. Or are you going to be terribly discreet?’
Angela laughed, although in reality she had now begun to grasp the true implications of the task that had been entrusted to her and her heart sank within her as she looked at her friend’s eager, expectant face.
‘I don’t know that there’s much I can tell you,’ she said. ‘I’ve found out one or two things that are suggestive, although by no means conclusive, and I’d like to look into them further before I say or do anything irrevocable. I should hate to cause trouble unnecessarily, and the situation is of course rather delicate.’
Louisa looked disappointed but said, ‘Naturally, I understand.’
‘I did find out one rather mysterious thing, however,’ went on Angela. ‘Tell me, do you know anything about what happened to Winifred’s money?’
‘Why, no. I always understood that she had given it away to some of her causes before she died. Poor Susan was left with practically nothing.’
‘Then she never mentioned to you anything about having been the victim of a fraud?’
‘A fraud? What kind of fraud? No, I had heard nothing about this.’
‘Apparently, someone she knew had persuaded her to put a large sum of money into an investment fund, on the promise that she could withdraw it whenever she chose. However, when she came to ask for the cash to be returned to her, this adviser—whoever he was—prevaricated. Two weeks later she died without ever having received her money.’
‘Gracious me! No, I knew nothing at all about it. Where did you hear about this?’
‘From Mr. Faulkner. He told me that she came to him to complain about it and ask what she ought to do. He advised her to wait a little longer before taking any further steps.’
‘Oh dear! Then where is the money now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Angela, ‘although I have no proof that the story is true. I heard it from Mr. Faulkner who in turn heard it from Winifred, and I gather she was not exactly reliable when it came to relating the facts of a matter with great accuracy.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ agreed Mrs. Haynes. ‘But surely there must be some documentary evidence somewhere? I am sure that Susan would have said something had she found it when she was going through her mother’s things.’
‘According to Mr. Faulkner, Winifred said that she hadn’t signed anything. It appears to have been quite an informal arrangement, which lends more weight to the theory that her adviser was somebody close to her. It would also explain why no written evidence had been found.’
‘I see,’ said Louisa. ‘Well, it’s quite obvious that it must have been—have you any idea who—’ she stopped, but gazed at Angela with a hopeful expression. ‘I don’t want to influence you, of course,’ she said.
‘I guess you are thinking of Robin,’ said Angela. Louisa looked relieved.
‘Well, naturally, one doesn’t want to accuse somebody unfairly without evidence,’ she said, ‘but Robin is the first person who springs to mind. He wanted me to give him some money too, you know.’
‘Really? When was that?’
‘Why, it must have been at around the same time he was asking Winifred, if what you say is true. It seems he was more successful with her than with me.’
‘Then you decided not to invest?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him—he is in Peake’s, you know, and does lots of clever and complicated things with bonds and shares and what-not. He wanted me to give him this money to put into some kind of fund that would pay out at a rate much higher than anything I could get in the bank. But he tried to explain what the fund did and I’m afraid I couldn’t quite grasp what he was saying. To tell the truth, it all sounded a little underhand to me. But you know lots of people who
do that kind of thing, don’t you, so perhaps you understand it better than I.’
‘Financial matters can be rather hard to comprehend,’ conceded Angela.
‘At any rate, I thanked him but said that I was unwilling to invest any money in something I didn’t understand, and from what you say it looks as though I was right to say no.’
‘Do you know whether he asked anybody else to invest their money? John, for example? Or Philippa?’
‘Not John,’ said Louisa. ‘John would have sent him away with a flea in his ear. But I suppose he might have asked Philippa. Do you think it could be a possible motive?’
‘It certainly sounds as though it might be,’ said Angela. ‘If we assume that Robin took the money and lost it—perhaps in some risky investment—and that Winifred was badgering him for it and possibly threatening to expose him, then that would be a motive for murder, yes. However, that doesn’t explain the deaths of Philippa or Edward unless they, too, were victims of the same fraud. And would Edward have turned in his own son?’
‘I see what you mean. I don’t know. I doubt he would have done anything without Ursula’s say-so, and I can’t imagine that she would have wanted to see Robin go to prison. And as far as we know, Philippa’s money was intact when she died.’
Angela nodded.
‘So you see, it’s not quite as simple as it seems,’ she said.
‘Shall you find out the truth, do you think, Angela?’ Louisa asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Angela.
‘Is there a truth to find out?’
‘I am beginning to think there must be. There’s nothing I can quite put my finger on, and yet—’
‘And yet what?’
‘I’m not sure. Everyone has been ready enough to answer my questions, but I get the impression that they have all held something back. I sense that there is something going on underneath the surface of which I am not aware—that there is an angle to the mystery that I have not yet considered. And you may think me superstitious, but I have the strangest feeling that someone resents my presence here.’
‘Do you mean Robin? If he is guilty of fraud then he must be terrified of being found out, so naturally he wants you gone.’
Angela examined her fingers. How could she tell her friend that it was not from Ursula or Robin that the uncomfortable feeling of being resented came, but from someone in this very house? She could not identify the person or people behind it, but that the source of the sensation was Underwood House she was certain.
‘Louisa, do you really wish me to continue with this investigation?’ she asked at last.
‘Why, of course I do,’ her friend replied.
‘But what if I should turn up something—something unpleasant?’
Mrs. Haynes went still for a second, then drew herself up.
‘What could be more unpleasant than murder?’ she said stoutly. ‘Angela, you needn’t suppose I haven’t thought about it—what might come to light, I mean. I am perfectly aware that we are all under suspicion—even I. But murder is a terrible thing, and if anyone is guilty, then he must be made to face justice. Better that than for us all to mistrust each other for the rest of our lives. Please don’t worry about me. I believe in the people I love best, and I rely on your intelligence and good sense to find out the truth.’
‘If that is how you feel, then there is no more to be said,’ said Angela. ‘I only hope I can justify your faith in me.’
She called for her car and bade goodbye to her friend, promising to let her know as soon as she found any new evidence.
‘Well, William,’ she said, as the Bentley swept smoothly down the drive. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Why, I’m not rightly sure, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘You must be the judge of that.’
‘Go on.’
‘All right. I did as you asked, and hung about outside for, I don’t know, must’ve been a half hour or thereabouts. I guess the Bentley never had such a good polishing as it did this morning! Anyhow, after a while the stiff lady came out, together with the lawyer fellow, who looked for all the world as if he was making certain sure that she left. He gave her one of those old-fashioned bows, but evidently it cut no ice with her, because she speared him with a gimlet-eyed stare and said something I didn’t hear. So I moved a little closer, and heard him say in a puzzled kind of way, “My dear Mrs. Haynes, as I have repeatedly said, I am at a loss to—”. But what he was at a loss to do I never found out because she wouldn’t let him finish. She interrupted him sharply, saying, “Do not think, Mr. Faulkner, that I shall allow you to dismiss me so easily. My son and I have been unfairly done out of our inheritance, and I intend to find a way of getting it back. You are hiding the truth from me, but believe me, you shall not prevail.” Then she turned and stalked off.’
‘And did you see how he looked?’
‘I did happen to catch a glimpse of him. I should say he looked decidedly wary.’
‘Wary,’ repeated Angela thoughtfully as the car left the village and began to pick up speed on its journey back to London. What did it all mean? What did Mr. Faulkner know that was seemingly so vital to Ursula? Presumably it must have something to do with Philip Haynes’s will—the will that Angela had not yet succeeded in seeing. Was Ursula angry that Mr. Faulkner was enjoying the benefits of Philip’s fortune? A fortune that had once belonged to her and Robin before Edward died? She was not the kind of woman to accept defeat easily. Did she suspect that the solicitor had come by the money dishonestly—had influenced the writing of Philip’s will in some way? Or did she even think that he had committed the murders himself? Angela remembered how keen Mr. Faulkner had been to present her with his alibis for the three evenings in question. Could they really be that unshakeable? She would have to ask Inspector Jameson.
Mrs. Marchmont sighed to herself. What was the solution to the mystery at Underwood House? Who was behind the mysterious deaths?—for she was now almost certain that the deaths of Winifred and Edward, at least, had not been accidental. It was tempting to plump for Robin as the most obvious suspect, especially if it were indeed he who had taken his aunt’s money. Fear of exposure would certainly constitute a strong motive for murder, and—whether she liked to admit it or not—he was the most unprepossessing of all the people she had spoken to so far. There was also the fact that Louisa was clearly hoping against hope that he was the guilty party. Yes, Robin’s guilt would certainly be the easiest way out. And yet—and yet Angela was not convinced. Somehow Robin did not fit into the picture as a murderer. Why should he kill his father, for example? There was no apparent motive there. Unfriendly and ill-favoured he might be, but violent? It was difficult to imagine him holding his father’s head under water as he struggled, or pushing his aunt to her death thirty feet below. Perhaps he might have poisoned Philippa—that seemed more his type of method—but again, why?
Angela shook her head. She was uncomfortably aware that there was one person in particular who appeared to know more than he was prepared to reveal, and she wondered how on earth she was going to tackle him. John Haynes had left the house immediately after lunch, so she had been unable to question him, but truth to tell that was something of a relief as she had not yet decided upon the best way to approach him. How exactly did one go about asking the husband of a friend whether or not he was hiding a guilty secret without offending both the husband and the friend?
‘I shall have to think about that later,’ she said to herself.
‘Very wise, ma’am,’ said William, from the driver’s seat.
Angela started. She had not realized she was speaking aloud.
‘Some people have servants who don’t presume to comment on their employers’ decisions,’ she remarked to nobody in particular.
William grinned.
‘Is that so, ma’am?’ he said. ‘Begging your pardon, but would these happen to be the same people whose servants aren’t required to eavesdrop on dangerous murder suspects?’
Angela op
ened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a snap and looked out of the window.
FIFTEEN
‘I am going to visit an artistic lady today, Marthe,’ said Mrs. Marchmont, standing in front of the long glass in her bedroom and considering her reflection dispassionately. ‘What do you suppose would be the most suitable thing for me to wear?’
Marthe thought for a moment.
‘The peach marocain will be too formal, I think,’ she said. ‘I have seen these types of people before. They are not chic. They like to hide themselves under ugly garments that sweep and swoop, so everyone will believe they are dedicated to their art above all and have no time to attend to their toilette. Pah!’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘How stupid they are! To dress well, make no mistake, that is also an art. Very well, perhaps the dark-blue tunic in mousseline de soie, with the silver pendant and earrings in which madame looks so elegant.’
‘That will be perfect,’ said Angela. ‘You are very right in what you say about dressing well, and I am glad I have you to guide me, Marthe.’
Marthe preened, then turned briskly to her task. Angela allowed herself to be primped and adorned to the girl’s satisfaction, then sallied out in a rather daring new turban that she had been unable to resist buying on a recent trip to Paris, despite its fabulous price.
Susan Dennison—or Euphrosyne Dennison as she was known in her own milieu—lived and worked in a mews house in a run-down part of Chelsea that was considered quite the capital of English Bohemia. Angela was shown up three steep flights of stairs to an enormous attic space which was airy and bright, and which would no doubt be absolutely bathed in sunlight on a less overcast day than the present one. The room had the typical appearance of an artist’s studio, with bare, dirty floor-boards, uncovered windows and detritus of all kinds piled up in the corners. Paintbrushes and jars of water lay on every surface, while canvases in various stages of completion stood around the walls. The smell of turpentine and oil-paint was all-pervasive. Angela approached an easel, on which stood what was presumably Miss Dennison’s latest creation, and viewed the work with a critical eye. It was painted in the modern style and appeared to represent a plump and resplendent nude with greenish-tinged skin, surrounded by a writhing mass of snakes that were devouring a mound of rotting fruit. Angela was not an expert, but as far as she could tell the artist displayed some sign of talent.
