‘Strangulation?’ suggested Willis.
‘Apparently not. They’re doing a full post-mortem today, but in the meantime they want us to go down and take a look. There’s one other thing,’ he went on.
‘What’s that?’
‘The body was found by Angela Marchmont, who happened to be visiting friends in the area.’
Sergeant Willis pursed up his lips and whistled.
‘Mrs. Marchmont, eh? She seems to have a knack of tripping over a crime everywhere she goes.’
‘So it seems,’ Jameson agreed. ‘If I didn’t know better, I should say we had a female homicidal maniac on our hands, but I think she’s just been unlucky enough to get caught up in some rather notorious cases lately.’
‘Or lucky enough, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, she gets her name in the papers, doesn’t she? Perhaps she likes all the attention.’
‘She doesn’t strike me that way,’ said Jameson, considering.
‘Nor me, sir,’ said Willis. ‘I was just trying a theory out loud to see how it sounded, so to speak.’
‘Well, you can ask her yourself,’ said Jameson. ‘Anyway, you’d better go and get the car. And find a map of the Romney Marsh. I was there a few years ago and I spent half my time going around in circles. It’s a different country down there.’
A few minutes later they were heading out of London along the Kent road. There were few cars out, and in a shorter time than they expected they reached Ashford and turned off the main road.
‘This is where it gets more difficult,’ said Jameson. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for sign-posts.’
But it was a clear day—much clearer than the day before, when Mrs. Marchmont and William had had to find their way blindly through the fog, and so, after stopping for directions once or twice, the Scotland Yard men reached the lane they were looking for without too much difficulty. It was easy to see that they had found the right place, for a small knot of people were gathered, talking and gesticulating, while two enormous cart-horses, escorted by a small boy, stood waiting patiently until they were called upon. A police constable pointed into the undergrowth that lined the side of the road and seemed to give directions to an elderly man, while a youth wearing oil-stained overalls uncoiled a length of stout rope and looked on doubtfully. Farther along, a motor-lorry blocked the lane completely.
‘This must be the place,’ said the inspector, who had spotted Angela Marchmont immediately. She was standing a little apart with a young man Jameson recognized as her chauffeur, observing the proceedings with interest.
Willis stopped the car and they got out. The sergeant went to talk to the constable, while Jameson went to greet Mrs. Marchmont. Her face broke into a wide smile of pleasure as she saw him.
‘Why, Inspector Jameson!’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ replied the inspector. ‘I understand you have another dead body for us.’
‘Oh, have they called in Scotland Yard?’ said Angela in surprise. ‘I thought it was meant to be quite a simple case. Yes,’ she went on, ‘we found the poor woman yesterday when we took an unexpected detour into this ditch.’
Jameson looked over the edge and saw the Bentley sitting askew and forlorn in the mud at the bottom of the bank.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t go into the water.’
‘Quite,’ said Angela. ‘We were very fortunate not to be hurt. But while we were down there, we found rather more than we had bargained for.’
‘Indeed,’ said the inspector. Willis and P. C. Bass approached them. Introductions were made, then the young constable said:
‘We’ve got the garage along to get this lady’s car out of the ditch. Shouldn’t take too long, once they’ve got the horses hitched up.’
‘I hope the area has been swept thoroughly for evidence,’ said Jameson.
Bass blushed.
‘Oh no, sir, I mean yes, sir. You can ask Sergeant Spillett. It was all done properly yesterday. We never found nothing. Well, nothing apart from a dead body, of course. But then, we already knew it was there. But there was nothing else that we could see.’
He broke off in confusion, and the inspector smiled sympathetically.
‘I’m sorry to say that William and I rather disturbed the scene of the crime ourselves,’ said Angela. ‘You see, we climbed out of the ditch very close to where she was lying and so may possibly have covered over any tracks that the murderer might have left. Of course, we should have found another place to climb up had we had any idea that she was there, but we didn’t spot her until we’d already got out.’
‘That’s a pity, but it can’t be helped,’ said Jameson.
‘Why are you here, inspector?’ asked Angela curiously. ‘I didn’t think Scotland Yard were called in for straightforward crimes such as this.’
‘I haven’t spoken to the sergeant yet, but I gather there are one or two unusual features about this case,’ replied the inspector. ‘We may or may not be needed in the end, but they wanted us to come down and take a look. They are pretty sure the dead woman was not local—at least, they’ve had no reports of missing women—and so they think we may be able to help in finding out who she was. We have more resources at our disposal in London, you know,’ he said.
‘I see,’ said Angela.
While they were talking, Mr. Turner and his assistant had succeeded in hitching the Bentley to the horses, and it looked as though the fun were about to begin.
‘Stand back, everyone,’ commanded Turner. They all obeyed and there began a great stamping and a heaving and a snorting, as the horses strained to pull the car up the bank. Presently the Bentley appeared at the top of the slope and was pulled safely onto the road, spattered with mud and with a highly offended air. Mr. Turner crouched down stiffly and examined the front wheel.
‘She’s got a bent axle, right enough,’ he said to William. ‘Want us to take her away and put her right for you?’
‘Oh yes, do, please,’ said Angela. ‘Will it take long, do you think?’
‘We can have her back for you by Monday, if you like,’ said the old man.
‘That will be perfect, thank you,’ said Angela.
He nodded.
‘Back the lorry up, Bob,’ he shouted to his mate.
‘You’d better move the car, Willis. There’s not room for all of us in the lane,’ said Jameson.
‘They’re expecting me back at the station, so I’d best get off, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said P. C. Bass as the sergeant went off to do as he was bid.
‘No, carry on,’ said Jameson. ‘Willis and I shall follow you shortly. We are going to scout about here for a few minutes, but then I shall want to talk to Sergeant Spillett and the inspector, if he’s there.’
P. C. Bass retrieved his bicycle from where he had leant it against a tree and rode off with a wave. The small boy, who had shown signs of wanting to stay until the end, was remunerated and dismissed. He led the horses away, but stopped some distance down the road to observe the proceedings.
Angela, William and Inspector Jameson watched as the car was hitched to the lorry and towed away in great state.
‘I hope she’s going to be all right,’ said William mournfully. He was very fond of the Bentley and was suffering severe pangs of guilt for having run it and his mistress off the road.
‘I’m sure she will,’ said Angela. ‘And anyway,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘we can always buy another one if she’s not.’
William brightened up immediately at the thought.
‘How are you going to get back to your friends’ house?’ asked Jameson.
‘Oh, we’ll walk,’ said Angela. ‘It’s not far—not more than a mile and a quarter, I should think.’
‘Willis can give you a lift, if you like. I am going to stay here and look for clues—always assuming they haven’t all been destroyed by a Bentley, its passengers and two cart-horses.’
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‘Don’t make me feel worse than I already do,’ said Angela.
‘I’m sorry—I was just teasing,’ he replied. ‘If it weren’t for you, we’d never have found her in the first place.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said.
Angela looked down at the tracks left by her car as it came up the bank. The deep grooves at the bottom of the slope had begun to fill with a muddy ooze as the water from the ditch seeped into them.
‘Look,’ she said suddenly.
‘What is it?’ said Jameson.
She pointed at the depression that had until a few minutes ago been occupied by the Bentley’s near side back wheel. There, squashed and filthy and ground into the mud, was something that might once have been blue.
The inspector whistled in surprise and called over Sergeant Willis. William came to look too. They all gazed at it.
‘Well, someone’s going to have to get it,’ said Jameson at last.
‘I’ll do it, sir,’ said Willis, but Jameson waved him away.
‘No,’ he said resignedly. ‘It shall never be said that we Jamesons quailed in the face of a bit of mud. Wish me luck,’ he said to Angela.
‘I shall wave my handkerchief,’ she said solemnly. ‘However, if you want to get down without sliding all the way I suggest you take the same route we did yesterday. Those bushes provide plenty of handholds.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, and did as she advised, reaching the bottom of the bank without too much difficulty. He made his way back along the water’s edge to where the thing was and bent to retrieve it.
‘Why, it’s a hat!’ said Angela. ‘So she was wearing one after all. We must have landed on top of it and squashed it flat.’
‘Is there anything else, sir?’ asked Willis.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jameson after looking around. ‘I’m going to come back up.’
He did so, and arrived at the top safely, holding his prize. They all looked at it. It was in a sorry state—battered, filthy, sodden and practically unrecognizable, but it was most certainly a hat.
‘Pity it’s not a handbag,’ said Jameson. ‘If it were, we might be able to find out something about her.’
‘I wonder,’ said Angela, ‘might I have a look, inspector?’
He handed it to her. She took it gingerly, pulled the squashed edges apart and peered into it. Then she put her hand in, as though feeling for something.
‘Ah!’ she said, and brought something out carefully.
‘Why, it’s a ticket for the cloak room at Charing Cross!’ said Inspector Jameson, taking it. It was wet, but quite clean. ‘Where was it? In the inner hat band? Why on earth did she keep it there?’
‘Oh, I’ve often kept things in my hat band, myself,’ said Angela. ‘I’m dreadful for losing bits of paper and it’s a jolly good way of keeping them safe.’
‘Then she must have come down from London,’ he said, ‘possibly in the company of the fellow who killed her. We’ll have to start inquiring at the railway stations hereabouts if the local police haven’t done that already. Hastings is the most obvious one, I imagine. We want to know whether they saw a blonde woman wearing a blue coat and hat arrive in the last few days, and if so, whether she was with a man. It’s a long shot but somebody might remember something. I wonder if they hired a car?’
‘She might have come down alone, of course,’ said Angela. ‘Perhaps she was visiting someone here in the area.’
‘Yes—we’ll have to look into that too. But the first step will be to go and get whatever it was she left at Charing Cross. With any luck it’ll be a suitcase with her name on it!’
‘Yes, that would be helpful,’ agreed Angela. Her curiosity was fully aroused now, and she was just about to make some more suggestions when she remembered that by rights all this had nothing to do with her. She bit back her intended remark and resolved to leave it all to the police, who presumably knew what they were doing.
‘We’d better get over to Littlechurch, Willis,’ said Jameson. ‘Can we offer you a lift?’
‘No, you go and do your duty, inspector,’ said Angela. ‘We shall be quite all right. It’s not far.’
‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Jameson, ‘why are you here? I mean, why didn’t you leave William to see to the removal of your car?’
There was a pause. Angela blushed slightly.
‘Oh, very well, I’ll admit it,’ she said all in a rush. ‘I was curious to see the scene of the crime again. I can’t help it—I think murder has got into my blood.’
‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘Yes, it can take one that way. Be careful, Mrs. Marchmont. Remember that curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I know that only too well.’
She and William watched as the two men drove away, then set off themselves in the direction of Gipsy’s Mile.
‘It sure seems a queer business, ma’am,’ remarked William as they walked. ‘I don’t like to think of that poor woman lying there in the dirt for hours or even days.’
‘No,’ agreed Angela soberly. ‘I hope the police can find her killer soon. I hate to think of him getting away with it.’
‘It’s a funny coincidence that they called Inspector Jameson in on the job, of all people.’
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘He must be quite tired of tripping over me everywhere he turns. But he’s a very capable man, and if anyone can solve the case, he can. I wonder, though—’
She paused, and William glanced at her sideways.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just wondered what Inspector Jameson was not telling us.’
SIX
The trees grew black and thickly, stretching their arms skywards and entwining one with another to form an arched roof of green leaves and yellow moss. Angela walked along the woody tunnel, feeling rather as though she were in a church, except that the floor beneath her feet was of dirt, and the pews were tree-roots. The nave of this place of worship appeared to go on for miles and the walk was beginning to tire her out, but she was determined to reach the altar far ahead of her, which was formed of a silver birch tree that extended its branches gracefully upwards to the heavens. She wanted to reach it, but the faster she walked the farther it seemed to recede. Eventually, it disappeared altogether and she clasped her hands together in desperation. As she looked about her, however, she suddenly noticed that the dirt path branched off to her left, and ended in a little glade a short way away. Almost of their own accord, her feet followed the new path, and soon Angela saw ahead of her something blue, lying slumped on the ground, bathed in a beam of sunlight that had found its way in through the verdant canopy. As she came closer, she saw it was a woman in a blue coat, lying on her back, her face completely hidden by a covering of moss and mud. She knelt down next to the corpse, then suddenly everything changed and she saw that it was not a woman at all, but the body of a man dressed in a smartly-tailored suit and a straw hat. Something glittered at the corner of her vision, and when she looked to see what it was, she saw to her surprise that his hand was clutching what appeared to be a diamond necklace. She felt something stir in her memory and peered more closely at the dead man. His face was quite obscured, and yet she was sure she recognized him from somewhere. Her heart thumped. Could it perhaps be—?
‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Angela, waking up and sitting bolt upright in bed, her hand to her throat. She looked about her wildly, then slumped back against the pillows in relief as she realized that it had just been a dream. She was in her bedroom at Gipsy’s Mile, and they were going to have Sunday lunch at Blakeney Park, and she was going to spend much of the day avoiding Cynthia Pilkington-Soames and laughing at Freddy. Yes, that was it. It was all quite clear now. She waited until her breathing had slowed, then groped for her cigarette-case and lit one, feeling extremely disconcerted and not a little betrayed by her treacherous subconscious.
It was still early, but there was no getting back to sleep af
ter such a dream, so Angela rose and dressed, then went downstairs. She expected to be the first one up, and so she was surprised to find Miles and Herbert sitting in close conference over cold meat and coffee. They looked up guiltily as she entered, and then greeted her so heartily that Angela was sure they had been talking about her. Perhaps they had been discussing the shady past she was supposed to have had, if one were to believe Freddy. She pretended not to have noticed anything, and helped herself to coffee and toast.
‘What time are we expected at Blakeney Park?’ she asked.
Miles attacked a slice of ham.
‘Noonish, I think,’ he said. ‘Gil’s not a stickler for time-keeping himself, but one has to arrive reasonably punctually in order to stay in Lady Alice’s good books. You shall meet her today, Angela.’
‘Is she as formidable as she sounds?’ asked Angela.
‘Oh, she’s not a bad old stick once you get to know her,’ said Herbert with a guffaw. ‘Rather formal and stuffy, perhaps, but easy enough to get around.’
‘She gives Gil plenty of headaches, though,’ said Miles. ‘She won’t let him rest, poor fellow. And he’ll be kept just as busy once he’s married, too.’
‘It’ll do him good,’ said Herbert. ‘The rest of us have to put up with being browbeaten by our womenfolk, so I don’t see why he should get out of it.’
‘Shall they be happy, do you think?’ asked Angela curiously.
Miles hesitated.
‘Yes, I believe they shall,’ he said. ‘Lucy is a fine girl, and Gilbert—well, you’ve met him, haven’t you? He’s an excellent chap—brave, and loyal and great-hearted, and all that—but he’s never going to set the world alight. And he’s the only one left to run that enormous estate of his. He needs Lucy. I’ve no doubt she’ll be the making of him.’
Herbert was nodding vigorously in agreement.
‘You’re both very fond of him, aren’t you?’ said Angela, smiling.
‘Difficult not to be fond of a chap when you’ve been through Hell with him,’ said Herbert gruffly. ‘He saved my life, you know. If it weren’t for him I should have taken a sniper’s bullet through the heart. Shouldn’t be here today, in fact.’
The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4) Page 4
