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

by Benson, Clara

  The letter finished by requesting that I take steps to prevent the marriage from going ahead, at least until arrangements could be made for the first marriage to be legally dissolved—she had no idea how this might be done, although of course an annulment was out of the question since the marriage had resulted in legitimate issue with the birth of her son. She had no claims to make in regard to herself, she said, but she was anxious to secure her son’s future and see to it that he was admitted to the family as the rightful heir of Blakeney Park. Of course, she did not expect me to believe her story without evidence, and if I—or better still, Gilbert—would only agree to meet her, she would furnish us with copies of her marriage certificate and her son’s birth certificate, which would attest that the date of his birth tallied with the date of the marriage, and that everything was perfectly in order.

  This letter, as you will imagine, caused me no little consternation and alarm for a day or two. My first reaction, on reading it, was immediately to reject its contents as untrue and to throw the thing in the fire. I cannot say that it surprised me to discover that Gilbert had entangled himself with a woman of low reputation who was now attempting to make some money out of the association—as I have said, he is not the brightest of men and is rather easily taken advantage of—but that they were legally wed I had no doubt was a lie. However, she claimed to have a son, and seemed to think that he would fall heir to the Blakeney estate one day. This was something that could not be easily dismissed: a son, whether legitimate or not, presents a solid obstacle that a money-grabbing chorus-girl does not. This woman might put forward a legal claim and make things very awkward for us if she chose, and with such a cause hanging over our heads the wedding would be spoilt, which would be an inauspicious beginning to the marriage that I had been desiring for so many years.

  I hesitated as I considered how to act, and after pondering the matter for some time I wrote back to the girl as politely as I could. I made no secret of the fact that I had been surprised by her letter, since I had known nothing of the marriage, and that I had no idea why my son should have kept such a thing from me, or why he had not replied to her letters: perhaps they had gone astray. Moreover, I agreed that Gilbert must have believed her to be dead, and that the situation was indeed rather awkward in view of his current engagement to another woman. Given the circumstances, however, and since there was much to be decided upon, I had no hesitation in inviting her to Blakeney Park to talk about the matter in person, and to consider together how to proceed if she and Gilbert wished to dissolve the marriage. I said that I was sure she would not object to bringing with her the certificates in question, since it was as well to be certain that all was in order. As a precaution, I also asked that she bring with her my letter, as I had no wish for it to fall into the wrong hands and perhaps cause a scandal: naturally, it would be better for all concerned if the matter could be resolved privately without becoming public knowledge. If everything proved to be as she said it was, then she was very welcome to stay at Blakeney for a week or two while the affair was settled.

  She wrote back, expressing her relief that I had taken the news so kindly, and said that she was sure something could be arranged without any publicity. She said that if it were not inconvenient to me, she would come down to Hastings on the 7th of September, but would stay only one night: she was anxious to return home and tell her son the news about his change of circumstances, since he presently knew very little about his father. Perhaps afterwards she would come to Blakeney again, and this time bring the boy. Until then, however, she would say nothing to anyone.

  This suited me perfectly since, as you will no doubt have guessed by now, I had plans of my own. First, I had to ensure that Gilbert would not be there when Lily arrived, and so I arranged to send him away on business for a few days. He went off obediently, leaving the way clear for me to act. On the afternoon of the 7th of September I sent our chauffeur, who is fortunately a taciturn fellow with little interest in the goings-on of his betters, to meet the girl at Hastings and bring her back to Blakeney. She arrived, and finally I saw her in person and could judge her for myself. I had not believed in her sincerity for a second when I read her letter: I assumed that her story of wronged innocence and anxiety to resolve the matter discreetly was a lie, and that in reality she was out for anything she could get. When I met her, of course I knew immediately that I was right. She was even more common than I had supposed, and there was a shrewd, calculating air about her that spoke of her real intentions. She was not interested in her son’s claims: what she wanted was money.

  I hid my feelings, naturally, and met her with reserved politeness, since too effusive a greeting would have looked suspicious, and she could hardly expect me to be overjoyed at her existence. We sat down to tea, and she immediately handed me some documents which, she said, ought to allay any uncertainty I might have had as to the legitimacy of her claims. One of them was a marriage certificate, which immediately proved beyond all doubt that she had been telling the truth in that respect, at least. The other was her son’s birth certificate, which appeared to show the correct date, given the short time she and my son had spent together—although, of course, with that type of person nothing can be taken for granted. Still, her claim was a strong one, as was that of her son.

  I confess my heart sank at that moment, at the thought of the task which lay before me. Had she been telling lies I might have sent her about her business and given no further thought to the matter, but this could not so easily be got over. I should wish you to understand, Mrs. Marchmont, that I am not an evil woman, and that I feel the same distaste for wickedness as anyone might be supposed to do. Nonetheless, I felt myself forced to act given what was at stake. If I failed to do so, then Blakeney Park would eventually pass into the hands of this boy, a usurper, and there would be nothing we could do about it—even supposing Gilbert and Lucy produced a son of their own, as I had long hoped.

  And so I acted. I invited her to stay to dinner, and said that she was most welcome to stay the night, as I had already mentioned—although, for the purposes of discretion I had arranged for comfortable accommodation to be prepared for her in a cottage in the grounds. She quite understood, she said, and was perfectly happy to do as I thought best.

  We ate in my private apartment, rather than in the dining-room, and maintained all appearances of being on polite and friendly terms. I must say that she kept it up very well, and never for a second gave the slightest hint that she was anything other than a devoted mother who wished only the best for her son. I knew better, of course, and it only strengthened my determination to resolve the problem as soon as possible.

  I had, before her arrival, provided myself with a small amount of arsenic from the stores we keep around the place as a matter of course, taking care that nobody should notice that any of it had gone missing. Our first course was soup, and I was tempted to put the arsenic in that, but I resisted since I did not want her to be taken ill before I had had the chance to get her out of the house. She therefore enjoyed her dinner in unadulterated form, and I waited for my opportunity. At last, she asked if she might be shown to her accommodation as she was rather tired. I acquiesced, but urged her to take a cup of hot chocolate with me before she went, and she agreed. The chocolate arrived and I put the arsenic into it under the pretence of adding some sugar. Nothing could have been easier. She drank it greedily, and then I escorted her myself out of the house and to the cottage—since it was a fine night, and I should like a little fresh air, I said. I then went to bed, with the intention of returning the next day. I knew nobody would pass near the place, and was certain that everything had gone according to plan, and so I slept well, confident that I had resolved the matter to everyone’s satisfaction.

  Of course, I was wrong. The next morning I returned to the cottage, expecting to find a dead body to be disposed of. Instead, I discovered to my great consternation that Lily was no longer there, although the arsenic had evidently taken effect, to judge by the
state of the room. I am not often moved to fright, Mrs. Marchmont, but you will no doubt appreciate the agitation of my mind on this particular occasion. For a few minutes, indeed, I had no idea how to act. I soon gathered my faculties, however, and set out to look for her. I assumed that in the throes of her illness she had attempted to fetch help, and thought it likely that I should find her collapsed in the grounds somewhere. I searched for some time but could find no trace of her, and eventually decided that I had better return to the house, lest my uncharacteristic activity draw notice and suspicion.

  That was the Thursday morning. At that time, I had no idea that Gilbert had returned unexpectedly the night before and was even then weeping over the girl’s body, believing, in his muddle-headed way, that he had killed her himself. I went inside and sat in dreadful apprehension, waiting for the inevitable moment when a servant would come and tell me that the body of a woman had been found in the Park—or, worse still, that she had been found alive and had somehow been able to accuse me. The moment never came, however, and I began to breathe more easily. I even began to hope that she had escaped Blakeney altogether and had died elsewhere. Later that evening, Gilbert came in and said only that he was back early as he had finished his business sooner than he expected. I assumed he had just returned at that moment, and was relieved that he had not been there to witness the incident. As a matter of fact, of course, he had returned the day before without telling me and had been the one to find her.

  You know the rest. On the Friday you rather inconveniently stumbled upon the body that my son and Miles Harrison had so thoughtfully hidden, and set in train the series of events which led to Gilbert’s being arrested for the murder of his wife. I do not blame you for this, naturally. You were only doing your duty, and under any other circumstances I should applaud it. In this instance, however—well, there is nothing to be said. What is done is done, and it is useless to wish things otherwise.

  Now to business. I saw, when you came to visit me the other day, that you suspected the truth about what had happened. You also had the good sense not to say anything—realizing, I suppose, that I should never dream of allowing my son to be hanged for murder in my stead and that a full confession on my part would be a more efficient way of going about things. I do not wish to go to the gallows either, of course, but in my case the matter is more easily resolved, since I am already weak and have to hand a bottle of medicine which can easily be taken in overdose if necessary—although a cold feeling has begun to creep through my body lately which tells me that it will probably not be needed. If the police require proof, they will find it in the closet nearest to my bed, where I have hidden the remains of the arsenic, together with the little bag in which Lily carried her night-things and personal effects. It is of leather, and ought to be easy to test for finger-prints, which will show that my son never touched it. I should like to state quite clearly that he had nothing whatsoever to do with Lily’s death—indeed, I imagine it will come as quite a shock to him to discover that his own mother is a murderer. I understand he is likely to be prosecuted for tampering with the body, but that cannot be helped. I am sure that Lucy will arrange an admirable defence for him, and that any sentence will be a light one.

  I told you, Mrs. Marchmont, that I was prepared to remove myself from Blakeney Park in order to secure its future and that of my son, and now you will see that I spoke only the truth. I have instructed my maid to send this letter to you after my death, and am placing the utmost faith in you to do what is right and ensure that Gilbert is released as soon as possible. There will, no doubt, be many legal matters to settle—not least the question of what is to become of the boy who, it now appears, is the legitimate heir to the estate. Since the problem is unlikely to be got over, perhaps the best thing will be for Gilbert and Lucy to take him in after they are married, since I understand he is presently very poor and neglected. He will certainly need to be educated in the ways of Blakeney before he can be trusted to run the place. However, that will be for them to decide.

  It has taken me several days to write this letter, and I feel myself growing weak now, so I shall finish here. I am leaving this whole business in your hands, Mrs. Marchmont: since you were, in a manner of speaking, the person who began the thing, I think it only fair that you be the one to end it. If you feel inclined to judge me harshly, please remember that throughout all this my only thought has been to protect the Blakeney estate and to ensure the happiness and comfort of my son. Can any mother truly say that they would not do the same?

  I trust that everything has now been explained to your satisfaction and that of the police, and remain,

  Yours sincerely,

  A. Blakeney

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Then you never believed that Gil did it?’ said Freddy Pilkington-Soames, as he prodded at an oyster with his fork and then regarded it, frowning.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ said Angela, ‘but the fact of the arsenic did rather point in another direction, since it required a certain amount of planning. I could easily imagine that Gil might have strangled Lita or hit her over the head in a moment of panic, but the poison didn’t seem to fit his character at all. Once he was arrested, though, I had the feeling that the real murderer would confess.’

  Freddy decided he did not like the look of the first oyster and picked up another one.

  ‘Did you find the evidence, as she said?’ he asked Inspector Jameson. ‘You can tell us, can’t you, now that the whole thing is over and done with? Old Bickerstaffe has been simply dying for me to get the low-down from you, but you’ve been as silent as the grave. Surely, now that Gilbert has been sent on his way with a rap over the knuckles, you can speak up and tell all? Do have pity, inspector—my reputation as the new boy wonder of Fleet Street is at stake, especially since the—er—little disagreement at Marguerite’s exhibition.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now,’ said Jameson. ‘Yes, we found Lita’s bag in the cupboard as she said, together with Lady Alice’s letter to her. She had brought it with her, as instructed. We also found Lita’s letters to Lady Alice hidden away in a writing-desk, which confirm the whole thing.’

  ‘Then there is no suggestion that Gil had anything at all to do with it?’

  ‘None that we can find. He appears to have been caught up in it completely unwittingly—although, of course, that’s no excuse for what he did. The Littlechurch police are still planning to prosecute him and Mr. Harrison for preventing the lawful and decent burial of a body.’

  ‘It was very foolish of him,’ said Angela, ‘but it’s difficult not to feel some sympathy towards him. He must have suffered torments, believing that he had killed Lita.’

  ‘It serves him right for ignoring her letters,’ said Freddy severely. ‘That’s a rotter’s trick. He married the woman and she was his responsibility. He ought to have faced up to it like a man. You’re too soft-hearted, Angela. By the way, how did Gil take the news of his mother’s crime, inspector? It must have hit him pretty hard.’

  ‘I’m not sure he quite took it in,’ said Jameson. ‘Not after everything else that had happened. The whole experience has completely shaken him up. Lucy is looking after him now, though, and I’ve no doubt is doing it with admirable competence.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Angela, ‘did you know that they’ve decided to bring the wedding forward? It’s to be at Christmas now.’

  ‘No,’ said Jameson. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, though. Now that Lady Alice has gone, young Blakeney has no doubt decided that he needs Lucy to take care of him and the estate.’

  ‘Rot,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ll bet it’s all Lucy’s doing. She wants to pin him down and make it all legal before he runs off and marries another chorus-girl then forgets about it.’

  ‘I imagine she’ll be keeping a close eye on him from now on,’ agreed the inspector. ‘She’s an odd one, Lucy Syms. I don’t mind confessing that I find her a puzzle in many ways.’

  ‘Do you t
hink she was shocked to discover that the whole thing was Lady Alice’s doing?’ said Freddy.

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Jameson.

  Angela said nothing. She had her own ideas about exactly how much Lucy had known of the plan to kill Lita de Marquez, but there was no proof and it seemed useless to bring it all up again. Lady Alice had taken all the blame upon herself and the affair was considered closed. Nonetheless, Angela could not help but remember the first time she had seen Lucy, sitting there on Castana by the side of the road on that misty afternoon. What was she doing out in the fog? Had she perhaps been looking for something—or someone? Lita had gone missing from the cottage in the Park and it was a matter of urgency to find out what had happened to her. Despite their mutual dislike, had Lady Alice taken Lucy into her confidence, knowing that Lucy would do anything to save Gil and the estate? Angela supposed they would never know.

  ‘I see the Copernicus Club has reopened,’ said Freddy. ‘I don’t expect Johnny Chang is feeling particularly well-disposed towards you chaps—although I suppose he ought to be relieved that you didn’t hang him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of having a quiet word with the powers that be at the licensing office about issuing a later licence for the club.’

  ‘I shouldn’t if I were you,’ said Freddy. ‘If you do that, then the place will lose all its cachet. Why, the only reason most people go is for the thrill of being raided by the police. Mrs. Chang and young Johnny know that very well, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t thank you.’

  ‘But Mrs. Chang is in prison. She can’t possibly have planned that.’

  ‘It’s a hazard of the job, I assure you,’ said Freddy.

  ‘How odd,’ said Inspector Jameson, as though the idea had never struck him before.