by Clara Benson
‘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.
‘Oh yes,’ said Freddy. ‘You wouldn’t want the place to become unfashionable and go out of business, would you? Not now that all the staff have got their jobs back.’
‘I suppose not,’ said the inspector.
‘Well, then, there you have it,’ said Freddy. ‘I say, why don’t you go there one night yourself? It’s rather good fun. They have an awfully good orchestra. You could take Angela—you’re more her age than I am.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela dryly.
‘I shall—er—think about it,’ said Jameson, ‘although I’m not entirely sure the superintendent would approve.’
Freddy looked at his watch.
‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Mr. Rowbotham is speaking in Brixton this afternoon, and I have it on good authority that trouble is expected from a group known as the Young Bolshevists. They are planning to let off fireworks and smoke-bombs, apparently. I should hate to miss that.’
‘Freddy,’ said Angela suspiciously, and he had the grace to blush.
‘It’s nothing to do with me, I promise,’ he said hurriedly. ‘As a matter of fact, it was all thought up by my friend St. John, who seems to have become rather—er—militant lately. I don’t suppose the Labour Party will select him as a candidate after this. Still, it ought to be worth seeing, don’t you think?’
He saluted them and sauntered off.
‘Will there really be fireworks and smoke-bombs?’ said Jameson in some concern.
‘One never knows with Freddy,’ she replied, ‘but I shouldn’t be a bit surprised.’
It was late in November when Angela returned to Littlechurch. Vassily had been released from prison and Marguerite was making a second attempt to stage her exhibition, this time without interference. When Angela arrived at the crowded church hall a little later than she had planned, she found the young Russian striking a dramatic attitude next to his work and holding forth to Mrs. Henderson, the vicar’s wife, on the state of modern art and the exceptional talents of his hostess. He was in no way chastened by his spell in gaol, which he dismissed as a mere inconvenience; he was much more upset at the destruction of his statue by that criminal Freddy, or Teddy, or whatever his name was. It was a good thing, he said darkly, that the young man had not dared to show himself this time: otherwise he, Vassily, might have been forced to act.
‘Fortunately, I have been able to mend statue,’ he said, indicating the last in the Eternity of the Damned series, which to Angela’s eye looked as good as new, ‘and for that, I shall not kill him. But he had better keep away in future.’
He waved expressively, and Angela started slightly as she noticed on his wrist something that she recognized immediately.
‘I rather like your watch,’ she said. He glanced at it complacently.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is present from Mrs. Harrison. She is very kind lady. I owe to her everything.’
He blew an extravagant kiss towards Marguerite, who preened a little. Angela suppressed a laugh.
‘I’m so glad you decided to come, darling,’ said Marguerite to Angela. ‘Cynthia tried to invite herself, you know, but I still haven’t forgiven her for that horrid piece she wrote after the last exhibition, so I said she couldn’t come. She was terribly contrite, so I suppose I shall forgive her eventually, but I couldn’t bear the thought of something going wrong again and her giving me that malicious look, as she did last time, then running off to twist the knife in her silly society column.’
‘Where is Miles?’ said Angela, looking about her.
‘At home,’ said Marguerite. ‘You shall see him later—you are staying with us tonight, aren’t you? Of course you are.’
‘How is he?’
‘Better, I think,’ said Marguerite. ‘This whole thing with Gil’s chorus-girl has hit him rather hard, although at least there’s no danger of him being put in prison now—Sergeant Spillett seems to think that he and Gil will be let off with a fine.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Angela.
‘Yes, it’s such a relief, darling. I don’t know what on earth I should have done without him. He is my rock, you know—simply my rock.’
She fluttered off, and Angela shortly afterwards saw her flirting openly with Vassily. She shook her head with a smile.
‘Hallo, Angela,’ said a familiar voice. It was Lucy Syms. She appeared to be alone.
‘Lucy!’ said Angela. ‘Where is Gil?’
‘At home,’ she replied. ‘He didn’t feel quite up to coming this evening, but I thought I ought to make the effort myself.’
‘How is he?’
‘Oh, very much better,’ said Lucy, ‘but he didn’t want to steal Marguerite’s thunder by making an appearance. He is still rather the talk of the place, you see.’
‘I imagine he is,’ said Angela. ‘And how are you? I hear you are getting married very soon.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy with a little blush. ‘We thought it best, after all that has happened. The sooner we can return to normal life the better, I think.’
‘I think you are quite right,’ said Angela. ‘The whole affair has been very unfortunate. Poor Gil—first of all he is arrested for murder, and then finds out that his mother was behind it! It must have been a blow.’
‘Yes, it was. It came as a complete shock to both of us, in fact.’
Angela looked directly at Lucy, whose face was as bland and impassive as ever.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘I had thought perhaps—’
‘Yes?’ said Lucy.
‘Lady Alice was an old woman,’ said Angela carefully, ‘and it had occurred to me to wonder how exactly she was planning to get rid of Lita’s body. She could hardly lift it by herself, could she?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Lucy.
‘She would have needed help from someone, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lucy. ‘Or perhaps she hadn’t taken it into account. After all, Lita disappeared, and fortunately for Lady Alice she never had to dispose of the body in the end, did she?’
She returned Angela’s gaze steadily.
‘Do you think she cleaned the cottage herself?’ said Angela.
‘Why, she must have, I suppose,’ said Lucy.
‘And yet I can’t see her doing it, somehow.’
‘No, but you must remember she was desperate,’ said Lucy. She went on briskly, ‘At any rate, the case has been closed now to everybody’s satisfaction, and even if she did have someone to help her—’
‘A servant, perhaps?’ said Angela, still holding Lucy’s gaze.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lucy. ‘Even if she did have an accomplice, whoever it was, there’s no proof. And what use would there be in dragging it all up again?’
‘None at all,’ said Angela, ‘were it not for the little boy who is now heir to Blakeney Park. I understand he is to visit you.’
‘Yes, he is. His uncle was very reluctant at first, after all that happened, but Gil is anxious to acknowledge his son and provide for him. What of it?’ She was defiant now.
‘Oh, nothing. I just thought that there might be some members of the Blakeney household—’ Angela paused delicately.
‘Servants, perhaps?’
‘—servants, perhaps—who are very loyal to the family and would consider him an obstacle. After all, he is in line to inherit the estate, and any children of your marriage are bound to be disadvantaged.’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Nobody considers him an obstacle,’ she said firmly. ‘Bertie is Gil’s son, and as such will be welcomed by everyone—including myself. I very much look forward to meeting him.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Angela, smiling. ‘With you as his mother I need not worry that he will come to any harm.’ She paused, and went on with emphasis. ‘I shall be watching his progress with interest.’
�
��I don’t doubt it,’ said Lucy. Angela was satisfied that they understood each other, and excused herself. How much of the plan had been Lucy’s they should never know, but Angela strongly suspected that she had persuaded—or challenged—Lady Alice to confess to the whole thing after Gil disappeared. After all, Lady Alice herself had promised not to stand in the way of the marriage. Had Lucy held her to that promise by forcing her to take all the blame onto herself? Angela shivered slightly. She was certain that Blakeney Park was in safe hands with Lucy, but pitied anyone who decided to cross her. Lucy Syms was a remarkable girl.
‘Well, William,’ said Angela the next morning as they drove away from Gipsy’s Mile, ‘it looks as though Mrs. Harrison’s exhibition has been a roaring success this time. I must say, it was quite refreshing to spend the evening contemplating the higher forms of art without risking a punch in the face from the artist.’
‘Art, do you call it?’ said William. ‘I can’t say it’s to my taste, but I dare say you know better, ma’am.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Angela. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say. You’re quite welcome to dislike it, if you prefer.’
‘I didn’t mind some of it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Mrs. Harrison’s work is kind of interesting, I guess.’
‘It is, isn’t it? Some people find it rather too daring, but I believe I am a modern woman and I must say I quite like it. Now, then, do you suppose we shall arrive back in London in time for lunch? We set off a little late—by the way, William, you really must stop disappearing like that.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said the young man, going pink. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Angela glanced at him.
‘Your face, William,’ she said.
William scrubbed at his cheek.
***
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Also by Clara Benson
THE MURDER AT SISSINGHAM HALL
On his return from South Africa, Charles Knox is invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Sir Neville Strickland, whose beautiful wife Rosamund was once Knox's fiancée. But in the dead of night Sir Neville is murdered. Who did it? As suspicion falls on each of the house guests in turn, Knox finds himself faced with deception and betrayal on all sides, and only the enigmatic Angela Marchmont seems to offer a solution to the mystery.
This 1920s whodunit will delight all fans of traditional country house murder stories.
THE MYSTERY AT UNDERWOOD HOUSE
Old Philip Haynes was never happier than when his family were at each other's throats. Even after his death the terms of his will ensured they would keep on feuding. But now three people are dead and the accusations are flying. Can there really be a murderer in the family? Torn between friendship and duty, Angela Marchmont must find out the truth before the killer can strike again.
THE TREASURE AT POLDARROW POINT
When Angela Marchmont goes to Cornwall on doctor's orders she is looking forward to a nice rest and nothing more exciting than a little sea-bathing. But her plans for a quiet holiday are dashed when she is caught up in the hunt for a diamond necklace which, according to legend, has been hidden in the old smugglers' house at Poldarrow Point for over a century.
Aided by the house's elderly owner, an irrepressible twelve-year-old, and a handsome Scotland Yard detective, Angela soon finds herself embroiled in the most perplexing of mysteries. Who is the author of the anonymous letters? Why is someone breaking into the house at night? And is it really true that a notorious jewel-thief is after the treasure too? Angela must use all her powers of deduction to solve the case and find the necklace—before someone else does.
About the Author
Clara Benson was born in 1890 and as a young woman wrote several novels featuring Angela Marchmont. She was unpublished in her lifetime, preferring to describe her writing as a hobby, and it was not until many years after her death in 1965 that her family rediscovered her work and decided to introduce it to a wider audience.
Table of Contents
THE RIDDLE AT GIPSY’S MILE
Copyright
The Riddle at Gipsy’s Mile
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
New releases
Also by Clara Benson
About the Author
