The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Miles, just as Marguerite cried, ‘Murdered!’

  ‘Because her face was all smashed in,’ said Angela. She felt a little sick at the memory. ‘I don’t think she could have done that simply by falling.’

  Marguerite turned back to the telephone.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘Put me through to the police, please. What do you mean, you can’t put me through? Oh, I see. Is that Mr. Turner? Hallo, Mr. Turner, it’s Mrs. Harrison here. I shall need you to send your men along to pull a car out of a ditch presently, but not just now. No, nobody has been murdered. Are you sure you can’t put me through to the police? Oh, very well. I shall call you again in a while.’

  She rattled the hook and spoke to the operator again.

  ‘Perhaps you had better talk to them,’ she said to Angela.

  Angela took the receiver and found herself speaking to a young police constable who perked up immediately at the prospect of a real murder case. He listened carefully as she told him what had happened, then asked her to describe exactly where they had found the body. No, there was no need for Mrs. Marchmont to show them where it was—he knew the spot perfectly. He would speak to the sergeant immediately and they would take some men along to investigate. In the meantime, please would Mrs. Marchmont be so kind as to remain in the area until tomorrow? Mrs. Marchmont said she was more than happy to do so, and hung up.

  ‘You look as though you could do with a brandy,’ said Miles. ‘Come and sit down and I’ll fix you up.’

  Angela acquiesced gladly and followed him into a large, comfortable sitting-room that bore all the signs of Marguerite’s eclectic taste in furnishings. None of the chairs matched: some were low and overstuffed, others rigid and high-backed. Occasional tables were placed about the room, some of them displaying odd items from Marguerite’s collection of ornaments and sculptures produced by her artistic protégés, many more scattered with books and newspapers. The walls were draped in brightly-coloured tapestries, most of them produced by Marguerite herself during a brief passion for the art a few years earlier. The overall effect was very characteristic and not unattractive.

  Angela sat down thankfully on a sofa and accepted the glass of brandy that Miles had poured her. After a sip or two she felt much better, and capable of replying to Marguerite’s barrage of questions. The Harrisons were most concerned at the idea of there having been a murder nearby, but both agreed that it was most likely the work of someone who was merely passing through—probably a man who had rowed with his girl and ended up by killing her. No doubt he had disfigured her face in a panic, in the hope that it would prevent anybody from identifying her.

  Angela was wondering whether it would be a good idea to accept a second glass of brandy when the sitting-room door opened and a loud voice said, ‘Hallo, hallo, what?’

  The voice belonged to a large, red-cheeked man in shabby tweeds, who was accompanied by a bird-like woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing. The woman caught sight of Angela and the sharp eyes gleamed.

  ‘Angela, darling!’ she cried.

  ‘Cynthia, darling!’ said Marguerite, descending on the newcomers in a cloud of scent and kisses.

  ‘Marguerite, darling!’ said Cynthia Pilkington-Soames. She flung off her coat and hat and threw herself into a chair. ‘Get me a drink, Herbert,’ she said to her husband, then went on, ‘What a simply awful time we’ve had getting here! Why, we must have got lost at least ten times, I’m sure. What on earth made you move to such a God-forsaken part of the world? I’ll bet there isn’t a decent butcher for miles around! Oh, but of course you needed to save money, didn’t you, after that sculpture exhibition of yours did so terribly badly. Such a shame nobody wanted to see it.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s so refreshing too, to shake off the cares of the world and return to a simpler life,’ said Marguerite. ‘Why, I find that living here, one is completely removed from the lures and temptations of the city. Perhaps you should try it, darling. It must be so tiresome for you, to be continually reminded of all those debts. Chemmy, isn’t it?’

  The two women smiled sweetly at each other as Herbert Pilkington-Soames retreated to the safety of the drinks cabinet. Angela and Miles exchanged glances and Angela decided to accept the brandy after all.

  ‘I’m so glad to have caught you at last!’ said Cynthia, leaning forward and patting Angela’s knee. ‘We still haven’t done that interview for the Clarion, have we? Not since you cancelled your visit here in July to go to Cornwall and recover from your nervous breakdown.’

  ‘I did not have a nervous breakdown!’ exclaimed Angela, more emphatically than she had intended.

  ‘Well, I can see you’re much better now, at any rate—why, you’re positively blooming. The sea air must have agreed with you. And of course, Mr. Bickerstaffe is still frightfully keen to get you. We shall have a cosy chat tomorrow, just you and I.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ thought Angela.

  ‘Is Freddy here?’ said Cynthia, looking around.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Miles.

  ‘He promised so faithfully that he would be punctual this time,’ said Cynthia with a sigh. ‘I swear, darlings, I have simply no idea what to do with that boy. He can’t seem to settle down at all. But then twenty-one is such a difficult age.’

  ‘I seem to recall that eighteen, nineteen and twenty were difficult ages for him too,’ said Marguerite. Cynthia bridled.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘He’s just naturally delicate and can’t stick at things in the same way others can.’ She smiled complacently. ‘But I’ve found him just the thing. They have been looking for a smart young man at the Clarion, and I have put Freddy’s name forward. I think he’d make a perfectly marvellous reporter, don’t you?’

  Angela privately thought that the Pilkington-Soameses’ indulged only son and child would most likely get the sack after less than a week, but forbore to say so.

  ‘He’s already missed a story by being late,’ said Marguerite. ‘Hasn’t he, Angela?’

  Angela would far rather have kept the matter quiet, and so merely nodded.

  ‘What’s that? Has something happened?’ said Herbert, who had made himself at home and was regaling himself with a large whisky.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Marguerite. ‘Angela crashed her car on the way here and ran over a woman.’

  ‘That’s not quite what happ—’ began Angela, but Cynthia’s eyes were glittering with excitement.

  ‘You ran over a woman?’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Angela. ‘We ran into the ditch and found a dead body there, that’s all.’ She added the ‘that’s all’ in the hope of making the thing seem less sensational, but immediately realized to her annoyance that it merely made her sound unfeeling.

  ‘It wasn’t just a dead body, though, was it?’ said Marguerite. ‘Angela seems to think she had been murdered. Her head was quite bashed in, you see.’

  ‘No!’ breathed Cynthia, thrilled. ‘Who did it? Was it a jealous lover, do you suppose?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Angela. She saw the prospects of escaping Cynthia and her sharp pen receding rapidly, and her heart sank.

  ‘Have the police been here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Miles. ‘I imagine they will come along later, or perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘And in the meantime I suppose they’ve told you not to leave the country, Angela, what?’ said Herbert with a great guffaw. ‘Will they pin it on you, do you think?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Angela politely. Her head was starting to spin from the brandy, and she put down the glass. The events of the past hour were starting to catch up with her. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go and wash, and perhaps have a little rest,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly you shall,’ said Marguerite. ‘Why, you look completely done in, you poor thing. It must have been more of a shock than you thought. Go and lie down for a while, and in the meantime Miles will go and fetch your bags.’
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br />   ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Miles in surprise.

  ‘Thank you, I shall,’ said Angela, and went out.

  THREE

  An hour or two later Mrs. Marchmont emerged from her room, feeling much refreshed, and went downstairs and into the sitting-room. It was empty apart from a bored-looking young man who was lounging carelessly in an easy chair, smoking and yawning. He brightened when he saw Angela.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs. M,’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve been finding dead bodies all over the place again.’

  ‘Just the one,’ said Angela. ‘Hallo, Freddy. Where are the others?’

  Freddy Pilkington-Soames gave a shrug expressive of splendid ennui.

  ‘They said they were going to get your things,’ he said.

  ‘What, everyone at once? I didn’t bring that much.’

  ‘Well, of course, your suitcases are just an excuse, aren’t they? It means they can go and watch all the fun,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Angela.

  ‘I don’t think Miles and Father were terribly keen,’ he said, ‘but you know Mother. She hates to miss out on anything, and of course Marguerite is never one to be outdone.’

  Angela could picture it only too well.

  ‘I don’t suppose the police will be any too pleased to have a crowd of onlookers,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I dare say they’ll all be back in a few minutes, having received a flea in their collective ear,’ agreed Freddy. ‘Let us hope at least that they remember to bring your bags. Would you be a dear and pour me a glass of whisky? It’s taken me half an hour to get this comfortable and I fear that if I got up I should have to start over again.’

  Angela raised her eyebrows but poured the drink without comment and handed it to him. He took one or two sips and settled back with every indication of great contentment.

  ‘I should have thought cocktails were more your line,’ said Angela.

  ‘Oh, I am too old for such things nowadays,’ he said grandly.

  ‘What? At twenty?’ said Angela, laughing.

  ‘Twenty-one, if you please,’ he said. ‘When one reaches man’s estate one starts to take life a little more seriously.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freddy sententiously. ‘I have been living the life of a mere child up to now, but I think it is time that I accepted my responsibilities and grew up a little.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Angela. ‘I understand your mother has found you a job.’

  Freddy waved his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You see before you the new star reporter at the Clarion. I am going to shake them up and make them understand that things have changed. No longer can they be content with doing things the old way. We youngsters know a thing or two and we shall show the Old Guard how it’s done. I expect I shall be promoted to editor in a year or two. Old Bickerstaffe can’t carry on for much longer. Why, he must be forty, at least. I shall pension him off and give him a well-deserved rest.’

  He wriggled more comfortably into the cushions.

  ‘Oughtn’t you to have gone with the others, then?’ said Angela. ‘Surely the finding of a dead body is a story worth having?’

  He gave a moue of distaste.

  ‘Oh, but it’s terribly sordid, don’t you think? Hardly worth bothering with. Some rough fellow bashes his girl over the head in a fit of anger and throws her out of the car—why, things like that happen a hundred times a day. No, I shall be concentrating my attention on the really important stories.’

  ‘But what could be more important than a murder?’

  Freddy hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Well, I suppose that from a certain point of view one could say that murder is interesting to the public,’ he admitted finally, ‘but I am more concerned with the really sensational stories—you know, the ones where Lady So-And-So shoots her lover in a jealous rage and is blackmailed by her maid. They sound so much better when written down.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t get cases like that every day,’ said Angela. ‘You can’t expect Lady So-And-So to go around shooting her lovers all the time just for your benefit.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Freddy. ‘At any rate, though, I mean to show them all how it is done. Not for me the life of a lowly sleuth-hound, sniffing out a scent and running off anxiously to Chelmsford, or Maidenhead, or Huddersfield, to question hundreds of slack-jawed representatives of the local populace. No, I shall merely stand quietly apart from the scene and observe. Then, once I have taken in all the information I require and applied my exceptional powers of the brain to the matter, I shall fasten unerringly on the salient facts of the thing, scribble a note or two and then go home and throw forth a thousand words of such elegant and affecting prose that my colleagues will be moved to tears of joy and envy and Mr. Bickerstaffe will resign on the spot.’

  He paused to dwell pleasurably on this enticing prospect and took another sip of whisky.

  ‘If that is the case, then I shall look out with interest for your first piece,’ said Angela.

  ‘Do,’ he said. ‘I assure you, you won’t be disappointed. Oh, they’re back.’

  They looked out of the window and saw Miles’s old motor-car turning into the drive. It came to a halt, and shortly afterwards the sound of voices was heard in the hall and Cynthia came breezing in.

  ‘Oh, you’re up, Angela,’ she said. ‘We’ve been to fetch your bags.’

  Freddy said, with an eagerness that belied his earlier apparent lack of curiosity:

  ‘Well, then? What news? Were the police there? Did you see the body?’

  Cynthia grimaced and shook her head.

  ‘No, more’s the pity. The police would have none of it, even though I told them I represented the Clarion. To hear them, one would have thought that we had merely gone along to gawp. Imagine that! Why, we’d never dream of doing anything so vulgar!’

  ‘Quite, darling,’ said Marguerite, who had just come in. ‘I was most offended. Why, the sergeant even had the impudence to suggest that we had no right to take your luggage, Angela, and that he might have to withhold it as vital evidence.’

  ‘He didn’t!’ said Angela in alarm.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry: Miles convinced him to hand it over in the end. I rather think we’ll be receiving a visit from them tomorrow, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herbert with a laugh. ‘I hope you’ve a good story ready, Angela.’

  ‘I don’t know what I can tell them, other than what they’ve already seen for themselves,’ said Angela.

  ‘Did you spot any clues at all?’ asked Miles. ‘Anything that might have suggested who did it?’

  Angela shook her head.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘As soon as we saw what it was we got away as quickly as possible. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant sight, poor thing. That reminds me—I must go and see that William is all right.’

  ‘Your handsome chauffeur?’ said Marguerite. ‘I gave him to Hannah to look after. She was overjoyed. I saw them flirting in the kitchen just now when we came in. It will be a wonder if we get any dinner this evening.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad,’ said Angela, but whether she was relieved at William’s well-being or the prospect of being deprived of Hannah’s indifferent cooking was unclear.

  At that moment the telephone rang shrilly, and Marguerite went to answer it.

  ‘That was Gilbert,’ she said when she returned. ‘He’s heard about our little bit of excitement here, and wants to know whether the police have decided which of us did it.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Angela. ‘How quickly news travels around here! I wonder how he found out.’

  ‘I don’t know, but he sounded positively eaten up with curiosity. He and Lucy are going to come over after dinner.’

  ‘Lucy?’ said Angela. ‘Do you mean Lucy Syms? I met her in the lane on the way here, shortly before we went off the road. We were lost in the fog and she gave us directions. She was on horseback.’

  ‘That would be Lucy,’ said Mi
les. ‘Never off a horse. She’s engaged to Gilbert Blakeney. Terribly sensible girl. She’ll be good for him.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard you mention Gilbert before. Is he the old army pal you used to talk about?’

  ‘That’s the one. He and Herbert and I were together at Passchendaele. Poor Gil: he rather took to the military life. He loved the travelling, and the marching—I even believe he liked the rough digs and awful food—but then just after the war ended his father died, and he found that everyone was expecting him to settle down and take over the old place like a good boy.’

  ‘Which old place is that?’

  ‘Blakeney Park, over towards Hazlett St. Peter. It’s an enormous estate—been in his family for centuries, I believe, and every last blade of grass in it belongs to Gil—although he’d far rather it didn’t!’

  ‘Oh?’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘He’d be the first to admit that he’s not the most business-minded fellow. As a matter of fact, there was a period, when he first inherited the estate, during which everybody despaired of him—especially his mother. He couldn’t seem to buckle to his responsibilities at all—kept disappearing for weeks on end and then returning, looking very much the worse for wear and refusing to get out of bed for days.’

  ‘The war hit a lot of chaps hard, of course,’ said Herbert soberly.

  ‘True,’ said Miles, ‘but I always thought that in Gil’s case it was the end of the war that did for him. The task of running the Park was a little too daunting for him. He hasn’t the kind of brain that’s needed.’

  ‘No, he’s not at all bright, is he?’ said Cynthia unfeelingly. ‘Quite frankly, I’m surprised Lady Alice was prepared to let him loose on the place. He’s the sort of person to do all kinds of well-meaning but stupid things. Knowing him, I half-expected the estate to be bankrupt within three years.’

  Miles winced.

  ‘At any rate,’ he went on, ‘he’s engaged to Lucy now. They’ve known each other since they were kids. She has a good head on her shoulders and she’ll see him right. I shouldn’t be surprised if she were to take the running of the estate upon herself, as a matter of fact.’