The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9)

by Clara Benson

  ‘People get odd ideas when they’re drunk,’ said Freddy.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Pearson. ‘At any rate, he didn’t have the chance to lose all his money, because eventually he looked at his watch and said he had to leave, as he had arranged to be elsewhere.’

  ‘At what time was this?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Nine o’clock, or thereabouts. That’s what I told the police, at any rate. I can’t remember to the exact minute, of course.’

  ‘And he didn’t give you any clue as to where he was going?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Pearson. ‘But now I realize he must have gone to see his wife. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t know him especially well, but one would have thought he’d have mentioned being married, don’t you think?’

  ‘They were separated,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Ah, is that it?’ said Pearson. ‘Sad when that happens. It goes on too much these days, and I don’t like to see it. Still, if they weren’t on good terms I suppose it explains why she killed him. I don’t like to speak ill of a man when he’s dead, but he wasn’t quite the thing, you know.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the problem,’ murmured Freddy. It was all too easy to see why Angela might have taken a gun to Davie Marchmont. What he needed was a reason why she had not. Pearson’s story had given him little new information, although one part of it was certainly suggestive. Davie had left the club at about nine and gone somewhere else—and not in the company of Pearson, by the sound of it. But where had Davie gone? No-one had come forward to say that they had seen him after nine o’clock, and so the police had naturally reached the conclusion that he had gone straight to Mount Street. Angela herself had said that she thought Davie might have wanted to search the flat while she was out, but if the police’s theory were the correct one, and Davie had died after midnight, then that meant he had spent three hours there until Angela came home. Surely it would not have taken him three hours to search the place? It seemed improbable that he had been there all that time. But if he had gone somewhere else before going to Mount Street, then where? And with whom? There must have been someone with him, surely—and perhaps that person had gone with him to Angela’s flat. This was not much, and was certainly unlikely to impress a jury, but it did seem to be a point in Angela’s favour.

  Freddy thanked Mr. Pearson and left the club, then walked the short distance from Pall Mall to the White Star offices, where a representative of that company greeted him cheerfully and listened to Freddy’s heartfelt and completely fictitious story of an elderly uncle of reduced understanding and his entanglement with a gold-digging American chorus-girl. A secret marriage was suspected, and there was the matter of an inheritance, upon which a most virtuous and deserving family had been relying to save them from a life of poverty and humiliation. Freddy gave a most affecting performance as he described the travails of the family in question, who had accepted their lot patiently and without complaint. It was of the utmost importance, he said, that they find out one way or the other whether a marriage had indeed taken place in the United States, for the principals would not or could not speak, and the only way of finding out seemed to be to consult the White Star passenger lists, since a trip to America was quite out of the question.

  Whether or not the company representative believed him cannot be said, but evidently Freddy made a good enough impression that he very soon found himself examining the passenger lists of the Homeric for early November. There in the first class column he soon found Davie Marchmont, who, as was only to be expected, was not listed as travelling with a wife—although Freddy had half-hoped that if there were a woman she might have travelled under his name. He then looked at the few single women’s names. They meant nothing to him but he took them down anyway. Then it struck him that, from what he had heard of Davie Marchmont, she was just as likely to have sailed second class—although on second thoughts perhaps not, since then they would have been kept apart during the passage, and Angela had said that Davie always liked to have a woman on hand.

  Freddy chewed his lip in thought. What he really needed was to speak to one of the stewards who had been on that voyage, and who remembered Davie and could tell Freddy whether he had spent any time in company with a woman while on board ship. The cheerful White Star representative was hovering helpfully nearby, and Freddy made his request. The representative’s face fell. He was sorry, he said, but the Homeric had departed that very morning for New York, with all its usual crew on board (as far as he knew), and was not expected back for over two weeks.

  This was a blow. Angela’s trial was due to begin in ten days, and Freddy had hoped to have some solid evidence to present long before then. He took a note of the Homeric’s expected date of arrival, then thanked the man and left the offices. It looked as though he had reached a dead end with respect to that particular line of inquiry, at least for the present, although he was determined to speak to someone from the crew as soon as the ship docked. In the meantime, he would carry on with his investigation as best he could, however hopeless the case was now looking.

  THIRTEEN

  The trial of Mrs. Angela Marchmont for the murder of her husband promised to be the greatest of causes célèbres. Not since the arrest of Dr. Crippen had the British public felt such pleasurable anticipation at the thought of the sensation which could be expected from the event, for rumours had emerged of scandalous behaviour on all sides, and there was nothing the man in the street liked better than the sight of high society conducting itself shamefully. Mrs. Marchmont was, of course, already well known for her exploits in the field of amateur detection, and all recognized and appreciated the grim irony that now placed this woman, who had brought several murderers to justice, in the dock, charged with the very thing she had always fought against. All wanted to see the spectacle of a famous society lady being forced to answer for herself—for although there was no particular bad feeling towards her on the part of the public, there was perhaps a tinge of malicious glee at the thought of seeing her in the very position in which she had placed so many others with apparently so little thought.

  It was a grim day in early January when the trial began, and so great was the curiosity to witness the event that a queue of people began to form outside the Old Bailey from quite early in the morning. By the time the doors opened, the queue stretched almost as far as Newgate Street and one or two scuffles had broken out, which immediately came to an end as soon as the crowd began to move forward. Once inside, it was a race to secure the best seats, and there was a certain amount of bickering and shoving until everyone was settled.

  Freddy Pilkington-Soames had no need to queue at dawn, of course, for he was there representing the Clarion, that shining beacon of truth and reason, as he liked to call it when in particularly jocular mood. He arrived at the last possible minute and sauntered down to the press bench, accompanied by a woman with fair hair and a worried expression.

  ‘Shove along, Harry, will you?’ said Freddy to the grizzled old man sitting at the end of the bench, who announced his credentials as a paid-up and long-suffering member of the Fourth Estate by means of one pencil behind each ear and three more sticking out of his top pocket. The old man began to protest, but Freddy ignored him, sat down at the end of the bench and forced everyone to shuffle up until there was room for his companion, who sat down likewise.

  ‘Are you sure I’m supposed to sit here?’ whispered Kathie Jameson. ‘I’m not a reporter.’

  ‘No, but we’ll say you’re here to take notes on behalf of Scotland Yard,’ said Freddy. ‘After all, it’s almost true. We don’t want old Jameson to miss anything, do we? Here, have a pencil.’

  He plucked the aforesaid object from behind the ear of Harry and handed it to her. The old man protested again briefly then immediately filled the vacancy with another from his top pocket. Kathie dug out a scrap of paper from her handbag and glanced around guiltily.

  ‘I wish Alec could be here,’ she said.

  ‘He has work to do and
criminals to catch,’ said Freddy. ‘Not for him a life of ease, sitting in court idly watching the public dissection of friends.’

  ‘Don’t!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry, old girl,’ he said. ‘I’m as upset about it as you are, of course, but I can’t help the black humour. It rather helps one get through things like this.’

  ‘I do hope she’s all right,’ said Kathie.

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Freddy. ‘And she will be. It’s all rotten, but soon it’ll be over and she’ll be released and we can all go back to poking fun at one another.’

  ‘I wish I could believe it,’ said Kathie. ‘But Alec says the case looks bad against her.’

  ‘Well, she’s got Percy on her side,’ said Freddy. ‘If anyone can get her off, he can. Perhaps he has a few tricks up his sleeve.’ Just then, there was a commotion and a barked instruction to rise. ‘Oh, and we’re off. Up you get.’

  Everyone rose to their feet as the judge and his acolytes filed in and made themselves comfortable. Then they all sat again and Kathie, whose eyes had been fixed on the bench, now turned her head and saw Angela standing in the dock, smartly dressed and very composed. She was perhaps a little thinner than before, and was certainly pale, but otherwise she looked as she always had. Mrs. Marchmont glanced briefly at the crowd she had drawn and then turned her attention towards the judge. Throughout the trial, she would maintain that same attitude of calm concentration, causing some to call her cold and unfeeling. For now, those in the public gallery contented themselves with examining her closely. Some whispered that she was taller than they had supposed, while others said she was shorter. Some said she wasn’t as good-looking as she’d been made out to be, while still others said it was a shame for a woman to be so concerned with dressing elegantly when her husband was lying dead and cold in the ground. Fortunately, Angela was oblivious to all this, as was she to the curious glances that were darted at her by the members of the jury: ten men and two women, all of whom seemed extremely aware that they were taking part in an event of great importance, for they all had a certain air of self-consciousness about them, as though they had been asked to pass judgment on Queen Marie Antoinette or some other grand personage, instead of the rather ordinary woman before them who was accused of a domestic crime that was by no means terribly unusual. At any rate, their expressions seemed to say, at least this was likely to be interesting—far more interesting, in fact, than a mere case of burglary or fraud.

  Then the murmur was hushed up and proceedings began. The judge gave his usual speech to the jury, who sat up and looked even more self-conscious, after which it was thought necessary to get the legal arguments out of the way. This was all very dull, and consisted of much to-ing and fro-ing between the defence and the prosecution on matters which were of minute interest to those in the know but which caused nothing but blank incomprehension on the part of everyone else. The attention of the spectators had just begun to drift away when there was a stentorian clearing of the throat, and a voice addressed one Angela Lillian Marchmont and invited her to speak. She was accused of the murder of her husband, David Alexander Marchmont, on the night of the tenth of November or early in the morning of the eleventh of November last. How did she plead?

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Angela, and everybody in the public gallery shuffled in pleasurable anticipation.

  The floor was then thrown open to allow the prosecution to begin its case.

  ‘I say, they’ve wheeled out the Attorney-General,’ whispered Freddy to Kathie. ‘Hasn’t he got anything better to do?’

  Sir Benjamin Hicks-Reddington, K.C.V.O, K.C, M.P, was a man of enormous importance—not least in his own eyes. In his many years at the Bar, he had successfully prosecuted and defended some of the most famous legal cases of modern times. Any soul who found himself in the unfortunate position of having to answer to a murder charge in court invariably breathed a sigh of relief and considered himself a lucky fellow on being informed that ‘Redd’ would be defending his case, for that gentleman was blessed with a brilliant legal mind, together with a sort of genius for spotting the flaw in any argument advanced by the other side. In addition to this, he was handsome, with a rich, resonant voice, which he used to great effect in his speeches, for he was also an orator of great talent and eloquence. Fortunately for those who might baulk at the idea of so much perfection unfairly concentrated in one human being, Sir Benjamin was also an exceedingly vain man. No-one could possibly be fonder of him than he was of himself, and nothing pleased him more than to catch sight of himself in some reflective surface—be it a looking-glass, a silver knife, or even a particularly shiny vase—and pause, as it were accidentally, to admire the sight out of the corner of his eye (for he was wise enough not to make the thing too obvious). Vanity aside, however, there was no getting around the fact that he was a formidable adversary, and Freddy’s exclamation was prompted less by disrespect than by a stab of dismay that Angela now had a harder task ahead of her, for if it were a very good thing to have Sir Benjamin on one’s side, it was a very bad thing to have him acting against one.

  Sir Benjamin cleared his throat and began, and soon the entire court was in thrall to that rich voice as it addressed the jury.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sir Benjamin boomed, ‘you are here today, not on behalf of any person in this court—neither the judge, nor the lawyers, nor the prisoner, nor the people in the public gallery—but on behalf of a man who cannot be here today for reasons quite outside his control. His name is—or was—David Marchmont, and he was the husband of the prisoner, Angela Marchmont, who is the woman you see before you. In the next few days, it will be your task to decide whether Mrs. Marchmont was or was not directly responsible for his death, and if the answer be yes, whether the killing was intentional or accidental. This is a weighty task that now falls upon your shoulders, and you must not shirk your duty, but instead must face it with courage, conviction and a clear head. As you bend your efforts towards the ends of justice, you must do so impartially, objectively, and without prejudice. You may, for example, have already heard of Mrs. Marchmont. There are few people in the land, I expect, who have not heard of her, for she has been a stalwart presence of late in the newspapers, which have dwelt much upon her exploits. There is no denying that she has gained a sound reputation as an amateur detective, and the men of Scotland Yard will be the first to admit that she has frequently given them valuable assistance, and on more than one occasion has been responsible for bringing dangerous criminals to justice. And yet despite this I tell you that you must now forget all you know of her; you must forget everything you have ever read about her in the popular press, for none of it is relevant to the instance at hand. The case upon which you have been called to pronounce judgment is a very simple matter, and can be summed up thus: did Angela Marchmont or did she not murder her husband? That is all you are required to decide; and how Mrs. Marchmont brought about the arrest of such-and-such a person, or what she said when such-and-such a criminal was caught, are of no interest to us at all at present. As His Lordship has quite rightly told you, you must confine yourself to the facts of the case and forget everything else.’

  ‘How he does go on. I wonder if he’s paid by the word,’ murmured Freddy to Kathie.

  ‘Now,’ went on Sir Benjamin, ‘let us begin. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is my intention to demonstrate to you beyond all possible doubt that Angela Marchmont did, with malice aforethought, take a gun and shoot her husband dead in the early hours of the morning on the eleventh of November, nineteen twenty-eight. I will demonstrate to you that the prisoner had every reason to kill her husband, that she had the means to kill him and that she had the opportunity to do it. Furthermore, from the witnesses I will produce you will hear that Mrs. Marchmont has no alibi for the fatal time; that is, she cannot prove that she was elsewhere at the moment her husband was shot.’ He paused to let this sink in, then threw a hand out grandly and exclaimed, ‘Let the first witness be called!’

 
; The first witness was less impressive than might have been supposed from his introduction, being none other than Inspector Scott, who in a brisk voice described the circumstances under which the death of David Marchmont had come to his attention, and what the police had found when they arrived at Angela Marchmont’s flat at 23 Mount Street.

  ‘This flat is in a building with other flats, is it not?’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘Where is Mrs. Marchmont’s flat located in relation to the others?’

  ‘On the third, or top floor,’ said Scott. ‘There are four flats on each floor.’

  ‘Is the building served by a lift?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about a porter?’

  ‘There is a porter, but he was not there when we arrived, and I have since found out that his attendance is somewhat irregular,’ said Scott.

  ‘You have spoken to him, then?’

  ‘Yes. He was away sick on the Saturday and Sunday in question and could tell us nothing about what had happened.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Benjamin.

  There followed questions on the location and position of the body when it was found, then Sir Benjamin said:

  ‘Where was Mrs. Marchmont while you were conducting these investigations?’

  ‘She was in the flat,’ said Scott.

  ‘Did you question her?’

  ‘Yes. I asked her if she knew anything about what had happened to her husband.’

  ‘And what did she tell you?’

  Scott related what Angela had told him. The court listened attentively.

  ‘And how did she appear to you? Did she seem at all upset at Mr. Marchmont’s death?’ said Sir Benjamin.